The Freak?
by CA Hawkins
Summary: Sherlock "Freak" Holmes. Teenager. No one bats an eye nor hesitates calling him Freak. What does John Watson, Captain of the Rugby Team, think about Holmes? What does Sherlock think about all this? Teenlock. AU. (More Sherlock characters to come.)
1. The Freak?

A teenager walks through the crowd of other teenagers. Walking as average as ever but is still feared and admired. John Watson. Captain of the Rugby Team. He walks with his mates and they walk behind him. John Watson can snap you in two but John Watson can tend your wounds with a gentle touch.

* * *

He says goodbye to his teammates and goes to the library. Yes, he may be the Captain of the Rugby Team but he's also a smart bastard. Probably why many just _want_ him. He reads quietly about Maths when he hears someone sit beside him.

"Hey, John," Sally Donovan, head girl, says.

"Hey, Sally," he smiles politely. They're not exactly close but they get along well.

"Oh dear lord," she mutters as she looks at the book he's holding. "_Maths_. I can understand it but it gives me hell."

"Which is why I'm studying it. This thing sucks hell," he shakes the book and they both laugh.

"By the way, have you seen Greg?" she asks.

"No, why?"

"Well, I just want to give him my part of the project. That guy thinks he's the boss," she rolls her eyes with a smile. "Technically, he is the boss but I don't like him thinking he's the boss."

"Yeah, well. Good luck finding him, Sally. I'm going to study."

"Right," she stands up and he is pleased to go back to his book. He's interrupted by a yelp of surprise.

Sally is now angry, books all over the ground and _him_ picking up the books. "Really, Sally? You can't even try to avoid bumping into me? Judging by the position of how you are standing, it's obvious you've been walking, looking straight ahead. So I would assume that you could at least avoid people in front of you."

"Well you're not exactly _people_, are you?" Sally says sarcastically. "Hmm?"

"Why on earth would I even think of myself as _people_?" Holmes spits the word as if it's an insult. "Especially if you're in it. I don't wish to be categorised with people who choose Anderson with a _love affair_." Holmes says the word with such disgust that even Sally is disgusted with the tone of his voice. Although Sally is disgusted by him no matter what.

"I don't need to hear anything that comes out of your mouth, Freak."

"Freak? That's all you can come up with? _Freak_? A five-letter word with only one syllable?" Holmes laughs. He forgets the book in his hand and watches Sally and Holmes in front of him with curious eyes. "I know far more than that." Holmes chuckles.

"You?" Sally mocks. "No one cares what a psychopath has to say."

"High-functioning sociopath."

"Sociopath? Psychopath? Who cares? You? Oh like you ever cared about something!" Sally laughs.

"Oh I care a lot. Deeply. Especially for you," Holmes says and Sally looks suspiciously. "Because Anderson's girlfriend is the person standing beside you this whole time. Oh Sally, you're in trouble."

"You're in trouble after I squash your head like a grape!"

"I won't be in trouble. I'd be dead."

"Get out of here, Freak!"

"Gladly."

And Sherlock Holmes gives a victorious smirk at Sally Donovan and leaves, with a smug look in his eyes. Sally turns around and makes up reasons to Anderson's girlfriend. John Watson doesn't hear her conversation. He thinks more about Sherlock. Honestly, he thinks Sherlock is such an arse. Also he can't help but think that he is smart. A smart-arse. Perfect title.

Although it makes him uncomfortable how he takes Donovan's name for him as if it's his name.

The Freak?

That seems harsh. But there's a little voice. The voice that agrees with his teammates. The one that sounds like a douche. And it tells him that Sherlock is a Freak. Then he denies this and thinks, '_No. Sherlock's a bloody weird bloke. But a Freak? That's a harsh name. Who can even live with that name given to you? Sherlock? Well that's unfortunate._'

* * *

There has been a lot of things that concerns the _great_ Sherlock Holmes. Apparently, he's got himself a reputation. There are whispers. Whenever Holmes walks through the crowd of teenagers, the crowd would part because of disgust and anger, John wouldn't know. But he can see that Holmes even looks satisfied with it.

Odd guy.

Who likes being avoided like you're a virus? Although that's what many people think Holmes has. A virus. Thankfully, it isn't _contagious_, others say. He never actually saw Holmes before the incident with Sally. Rumours say that he'd be completely merciless with his words. Hmm.

* * *

Later, after school, he approaches Sally. "Hey, Sally, success on finding Greg?"

"Yup. Good thing too. I was starting to panic!" she laughs.

He asks, "Listen, earlier today. Holmes. I just want to ask, why do you call him Freak?"

"The Freak? What do you mean?" she asks with a confused tone. "Everyone calls him that, right?"

He thinks hard, "Yes, well.. I just want to ask why _you_ call him that. You specifically."

"Why?"

"I want to ask the Head Girl's perspective."

"Okay.. The Freak.. God, where to start. First of all, that arsehole is a complete know-it-all who just won't shut up until everyone's ears are bleeding. Acts all powerful and like he owns the place. What an arsehole! God... He isn't even human. It's like he's a machine! I saw him cut worms once and he put some kind of liquid on them. I mean, who the hell does that? He even looks happy with what he was doing. What a _freak._" He winces at the word. Not for Sherlock's sake but because of how it was delivered. He knows that Sally means the word.

"Oh." he whispers.

"Oh?"

"That's all I can say. Oh." he tells her.

"Right. Listen, did the Freak bother you today? I mean, why ask?"

"Dunno. I guess I got curious."

"Right. I have to go now. Bye, John."

"Bye, Sally!" he waves and makes his way back home.

* * *

AN:

I don't own the characters. First Fanfiction.


	2. Observing Holmes

He may not have met the infamous Sherlock Holmes but he certainly has heard whispers. He's torn between believing those stories or go against them. He knows inside him that what they say is rather rude - even for someone who is Sherlock Holmes but this little thought in his mind says that this smart-arse is an arse, probably an annoying dick as well.

But ever since he actually saw Holmes's conversation with Sally. He became curious. Both thoughts of going against and believing the stories are in a jumble. It is true that he can be an arse - with words he couldn't control. But it may also be because everyone treats him wrongly like he's nothing instead of seeing him as a human being. '_I hope I'm not the only one who thinks he's human._' He thinks to himself.

Some say Holmes observes too much to do this 'trick' of his.

So he tries to observe Holmes.

'_Maybe he's just an odd bloke. Or maybe he's just as an arse as everyone thinks he is_.' he tells himself.

So he starts observing Holmes.

* * *

He walks through the same suffocating crowd when he sees him again.

There's Holmes on the other side of the school's back garden. He seems to be watching a bush - just crouching there, looking. '_What the hell?_' He's perfectly still, with eyes focused on the bush. John is too far away to see what he's actually looking at so Holmes looks absolutely ridiculous looking too focused at a bush.

Suddenly, an arm touches his shoulder, "John." Greg's voice says.

"Hey, Greg."

"What are you doing?" Greg follows his gaze and sees Holmes looking at a bush. "Ohhh... Looking at him then?" Greg chuckles. "Are you planning to punch him or something?"

He mentally scowls and disapproves of what Greg just said. He thought Greg would be decent enough not to think like that. "No. It's just-" he gestures to him.

"Oh good." Greg suddenly says. He tilts his head at him and Greg shrugs. "Hey, I don't want anyone fighting with anyone 'round here, ya know?" And just like that, John's respect for Greg comes back up again. "Hold on. If you're not planning to punch him in the face, then what are you doing staring at Holmes?"

'_Holmes Holmes Holmes Holmes_' His thought says. He guesses Greg doesn't think of Holmes as a freak, unlike others.

"Just observing."

"Why?" he asks and then his face changes. "Oh."

"Oh what?"

"Are you - I don't know - are you - you know... gay?" Greg asks.

He looks at Greg with confusion, "Huh? What? No, I'm not gay."

"Ahhh."

"Yeah. I just got curious why he's doing that." He gestures to Holmes again.

"Oh he always does that. No one knows what he's doing but he just... does..."

"Greg?"

"Yah?"

"What do _you_ think of Holmes?"

"Why ask?"

"Curiosity."

"Holmes? Umm... Well, he's an alright bloke, I guess. I don't know. Smart, but thinks everyone's an idiot. But, aren't we all?" he smiles. He smiles back. His respect for Greg moves higher now.

"Oh there, he's standing up."

They both watch as Holmes jumps in the air with a huge grin on his face, even putting both his fists in the air like he just won a million pounds or something. "I'M BRILLIANT" They hear him yell. He starts to look like he's mumbling to himself, turning in circles with a smile as he claps his hands in glee. He then looks down at the bush again and gets something - too small for both Greg and him to see and he leaves the school.

"Whoa. Hyper guy, I guess?" He says as Greg chuckles.

"Maybe," he says and they both leave for Rugby Practice.

* * *

A few days later, he got detention for being late in class. Well it wasn't his fault that he woke up late (He blames Harry for being drunk last night). He walks inside and sees Holmes at the back of the class, eyes cold and icy. Looking at the window to his left with a bored expression.

They sit there in silence - all five of them.

After an hour they were all allowed home. He secretly observes Holmes. He thinks it's rather odd for Holmes to walk while looking at his left - like there's something on his shoulder but he seems to dodge the things in front of him.

He sees him walk around clumsily but he doesn't do anything to help him in fear of something even he doesn't know yet. Is it because he's afraid of what Holmes might think or is it because he fears that he just might get angry if Holmes says something bad about him and he becomes like the other in school or he's just a big chicken.

He watches as Holmes walks home - which fortunately is the same block of which he passes everyday. He only sees Holmes back facing him but it's his turn to his block which is on the left, he steals a glance at Holmes again to see Holmes looking at the right this time - as if purposely hiding his face from him - Odd.

* * *

He comes to school the next day when one of his mates, Moran, boasting about "punching the weird-arse freak's face like a bad-arse."

And he couldn't help the lump on his throat when he realises that Holmes has been hiding his bruised face - probably in shame.

Moran continues boasting to the other Rugby players, "The bitch just fell on the ground like a sissy!" And they all roar in laughter. "Then he tried to punch me but Professor White came and saw the freak about to punch back then she just shouted his name and the bitch just looked goddamed funny!" It's like they're all running out of air to breathe as they laugh. "He got so distracted, he didn't even hit me! Bitchsquealer just missed! The freak just looked sooo stupid."

He may not know Holmes at all. But it's hard to listen to them have fun at another bloke's unlucky state. To laugh at someone who just got punched in the bloody face - that must be worse than what Holmes does, right?

Holmes must be lonely - but he seems to like it when he's alone.

He promises himself to talk to him the next time he sees Holmes again.


	3. Flying Data

Saturday. And here we have him, John Watson, walking by the park with earphones on, bopping his head as he listens to good music he loves so much. When he feels like no one is watching, the occasional poses and dances takes over. He feels the music, snapping his fingers and he gives a pose where he opens his arms freely.

Which makes him pale when he felt skin touch the back of his hand.

He quickly turns around to see curly-brown hair in front of him muttering, "No! No! My work!" Familiar voice.

He immediately crouches down to help this brown-haired stranger and picking up some books, folders and papers - although there are still flying papers around them. "Oh my god, I am so sor-"

He stops short when a pair of blue-green-gold eyes stare right at him. Holmes. '_It's Holmes!_' his mind screams in panic. He quickly gets all the stuff and clears his throat as silence washes all over them. "There goes my data," Holmes's deep voice says. "It's flying everywhere," he sighs and picks up the things that did not get wet from the puddles surrounding them.

He sees Sherlock rub his cheek and finally see fading bruises on his face. "I'm sorry, I should have been more careful," he says.

Sherlock looks at him as if he's gone bonkers, "What? No. You need not to apologise. You've been busy listening to - probably - boring music and have been carried away with the stupidity of the message it brings." Holmes scoffs.

He frowns. He's listening to the Beatles. _'The Beatles!_' "I'm listening to good music. Deal with it," he snaps.

"I didn't ask if it was good music. I simply said it's probably boring," Holmes raises his brow. Oh he wants to strangle him alright. He gives Holmes a murderous glare which even makes Moran uncomfortable. But it seems that it doesn't have an effect on Holmes.

"Listen here, _Holmes_," he spits his name and Holmes even gives a victorious smirk. He points at him angrily, "You better keep that bloody wild mouth of yours shut before I lose my sanity."

"And why should I stop if it benefits you instead of me?"

"Because when I become insane, I become _insane_," he means it. Holmes raises his head for a second - probably realising the anger he is feeling right now.

Holmes tuts, "Well that's unfortunate for someone who aspires to be a doctor, don't you think?"

He blinks at this. He is aware that Sherlock is good at his trick but '_How did this bastard know I wanna be a doctor?_' He thinks. "Wha-? How d'you-" he starts to ask.

"How did I know that you want to be a doctor?" He gives a small nod. "Well it is clear that you have an extensive knowledge of Medicine – I often notice you reading books upon the matter. You love helping others – that much is said from the way you treat those who are injured in a Rugby match – quickly and without hesitation, sometimes even getting a bit aggressive when your ways are blocked by idiots. You have the patience and composure of a doctor – calm and you have an idea of what is okay and not okay to say. Even if you aspire to be a doctor, there is this part of you that still loves the adrenaline rush of a good fight, or at least, a good match.

"Plus may I add that your mother is a doctor and you see her as an inspiration instead of your father – who is an alcoholic, not an aggressive or violent one, but annoyingly an alcoholic, judging from the fact that he even gave you that phone. It's been in the pockets along with keys and coins – a gift then. Plus the fashion is about a year ago and the kind of model that a man of age would use. Kind father but alcoholic since the plug for the charger has scratches around it – you never see that amount of scratches in a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them.

"The same goes to your brother whose girlfriend he left – seeing the coat you are wearing with the small embroidery saying 'To Harry Watson. From Clara xxx.' Obviously Clara gave this to Harry. Three kisses means attachment. Now Harry gave this to you – he wouldn't just let you borrow it if the sentiment is still connected. If she left him, he would have kept that but no he gave it to you, so he left her."

He asks, "How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark, good one though. The zipper of your coat is clearly been zipped up and down clumsily with shaking fingers – judging by the amount of times that the zipper is clearly reattached – about more than ten times. The amount of times indicates that this has been an ongoing problem. Now, it may just be emotional breakdowns but he wouldn't break this coat since it has sentimental value to it and he wouldn't get angry seeing as he left her, if that was the case then it would be probably but the amount of the zipper breaking is too much for emotional breakdowns – so shaking hands, clumsy, bit aggressive, plus the scent of alcohol is still there – simple."

He blinks once, twice, thrice. "Ahuh..." He can't help but be impressed by how much Holmes's mind can do. '_What the hell? This guy must be psychic. I mean, whoa. That's bloody brilliant._' "That is.. That is just..."

He looks down at the embroidery on his coat. He raises the phone in front of his eyes and indeed sees the marks on the phone. He looks back at Holmes and sees him in a strange stance.

He may not be as brilliantly observant as Sherlock Holmes but he does have a brain of his own. He's pretty sure that Holmes's closed fists, stiff posture and clenched jaw means something. His face tilted a bit to one side, looking down a bit. His hair makes it impossible to see if his eyes are closed or not. "That... was amazing," he manages to say.

He almost gets startled at the quick movement of Holmes's head which was looking down and is now looking at him. His eyes are focused and lost at the same time. Holmes relaxes in posture and stands up with his hands in the pockets of his black Belstaff coat. He doesn't even want to think how much that coat must cost.

Holmes hesitates, "You think so?"

"Yes of course it was. It was extraordinary," he looks down at his phone again, "It was quite extraordinary..."

"That's not what people always say," Holmes says looking at the empty road.

"What do people always say?"

Holmes looks at him, "Piss off!" and Sherlock gives him a smile. He feels good for managing to make the well-known cold Sherlock Holmes smile. But a shiver runs through his spine when he sees the expression after the smile. Holmes looks down in though. Holmes's face is quite impassive but he can see right through that - he doesn't know how but he does.

"Wait... How'd you know my mother's a doctor?" He asks.

Holmes looks up again at him and his eyes are cold. Holmes shrugs in reply - which John finds odd. '_Seriously? A minute ago, you want to show-off and now you're not going to answer to a question worth showing off to?_'

"Come on, Holmes," he playfully punches Holmes's arm. Holmes steps back - almost unnoticeable - and looks at him, confused. He looks back at Sherlock just as confused. "Was it something I said?" he asks all of a sudden.

"No... No... It's nothing..." Holmes answers. Holmes blinks a few times. Sherlock puts his head down and closes his eyes.

'_Is he tearing up?_' He thinks to himself and suddenly says, "Whoa whoa whoa... Sorry... What did I say?... Sorry..." He leans down.

Holmes gives a shaky breath and then suddenly stands up tall with a proud posture. He jumps up startled. '_Good. He didn't tear up, then._' He thinks. '_What the heck just happened? Maybe I just imagined it all._'

"Was there anything wrong?"

"Just one"

"What?"

"Harry's short for Harriet." He swears Holmes became stone.

"Harry's your sister? SISTER! Always something."

"Okay..." He can't help but ask what happened to Holmes when he asked about Sherlock's mother. "But what just-? Holmes?"

"Sherlock, please," Holme-_ Sherlock_ offers his hand and he thinks this is all too ridiculous since they already met and spoke too long and such. Anyway, he grabs his hand and shakes it.

"Hello. John Watson, again. Sorry about bumping you earlier. Now there's flying data everywhere."

Holmes snorts. "Flying data, that's one way of saying it."


	4. These Interviews

Usually, he walks through the suffocation crowd. Now, the crowd parts a little - giving him more space as he walks than usual. People keep staring at him. Some are giving him winks, and some are looking like they fear him. Some are giving him a pat on the back saying, "Good luck, John!" and some are giving him a nod like there's some nasty business going on.

* * *

Apparently, word has spread out that John Watson, Captain of the Rugby Team, is planning a beating for one Sherlock Holmes. Everyone at school knows about the details except for: the school staff, Sherlock Holmes (or maybe he does know?) and John Watson himself.

* * *

For the whole day, he grows more and more confused with everyone's behaviour towards him. It's like they're treating him like a king or hero. '_What the hell is going on with everyone today?_' He feels like everyone's being cryptic about something and they expect that he knows about it as well so he just plays along. In truth, he remains oblivious for the whole day.

"Oi, John!" He turns to see Greg walking towards him.

"Yes?"

"Heard you're planning to beat up Holmes... I thought you said you're not gonna do that?"

His mind goes blank. First of all is shock. '_Everyone thinks I'm going to beat up someone?!_' Seconds is confusion, '_Where the hell did this come from?_' Disappointment, '_To think everyone thinks I'm capable of doing that._' And a lump on his throat, '_If everyone is treating me like some bloody king because they think I'm gonna beat up Sherlock, that's... That's just sick._'

"Where the hell did that come from?" he asks.

"Everyone already knows about it. This guy saw you give Holmes that scary look on your face. You know, the one you give to the people you punch." Greg gives him a disapproving glare.

"Hey! I only punch bullies!"

"Well, you're a bully now so..."

He's appalled. "I will _NOT_ beat up Sherlock Holmes."

"Then why does everyone think that, hmm?"

"Because that guy probably just saw me get angry when Sherlock said the Beatles is boring."

"Whoa..." Greg says. "Your favourite."

"Exactly..."

Silence engulfs them. "Well, guess I owe you an apology. Sorry. Just thought you became like Moran or something."

He mockingly puts a hand on his heart and fake-almost fainting "That broke my heart, Greg. You know me more than that."

"Stop that. But yeah... Shouldn't jump to conclusions."

"Seriously."

A pause. "Oooooooooooh..."

"What?"

"You called him _Sherlock_."

"Did I?"

"Yup."

"Oh."

"So..."

"So?"

"You guys dating?"

He looks at him, "A minute ago you thought I was gonna beat him up and now this? You shouldn't jump to conclusions again Greg. No, we're not dating."

"But... '_Sherlock_'?"

"We officially met yesterday."

"I know... Everyone kinda knows about that..."

"We met. That's all."

"Right... Right, I'm gonna go now. Bye, John. Sorry again."

"No problem, mate." Greg runs off and he shakes his head in disbelief and then chuckles at the absurdity of the conversation.

* * *

The day continues with lots of questions about the upcoming "beating". Everyone makes him sick. '_Why would anyone be excited about beating up someone? Sherlock can be an arse but he doesn't deserve to get beaten up for lacking social skills ._' He just ignores them and pretends not to hear them or just mumbles inaudibly that no one understands a word he says.

* * *

He quietly and secretly does his homework (Doing your homework on the same _hour _it is given is apparently what swots do. Especially when it is due next week) when Sally sits beside him and gives him her full attenrion. "Heard you met the Freak yesterday."

He internally winces at the word. He keeps his eyes on his homework, avoiding looking at Sally - he doesn't want to look at her accusing eyes at the moment. "Yes. Met _Sherlock _while walking..."

"So... You're going to beat up the Freak, huh?" he sighs at this but before he says something, Sally cuts him off. "Look, John. Even though we both know that the Freak is the absolute worst freak of all the freaks and everyone hates him, don't beat up the arsehole. I know, I want to punch him myself and I even want to see him get beaten up - that's the dream. But come on, John. Violence isn't worth it."

His eyebrows rise in surprise. He definitely did not expect this. Sally may be a bitch but she's a decent head girl. Decent enough to be against bullying and violence even if the victim would be Sherlock. "Sally, I'm not going to beat up anyone."

"But everyone knows already! No need to lie John."

"Those are rumours!" Sally's eyes narrows a bit and then she nods.

"Ohhh..."

"Yes, oh."

"If you tell _anyone _that I tried to stop you from beating up the Freak, I will-"

"No need to threaten me, Queen Sally."

Sally huffs and says, "Ha. Ha." In a dark tone. They both laugh.

"Listen Sally, it's nice to talk but these interviews are getting on my nerves."

"Interviews?"

"Everyone's being worse than the media at the moment."

"Ahhh. Got it. Okay," Sally goes back to her seat and he continues his homework. He's almost done. '_I feel like a swot._'

* * *

Rugby practice is cancelled which he scoffs at - he already changed clothes! He's the last to walk home - he left his phone. As he passes through he alley beside the school. He hears someone yell. "Watson!" He turns to see his teammates at the dead end of the alley, looking at him with a grin. He runs towards them.

As he moves closer, he sees a figure trapped in the corner. Pale skin. Black coat. He's now ten feet from them and sees Sherlock looking dangerously angry. Moran puts a hand on John's shoulder. "Mate, we got the freak for you. Beat him up! We all know you've been waiting for this! Come on!" Moran pushes him towards Sherlock and the two meet each other's eyes.

He can see the look of anger at him. He can see Sherlock despises him, hidden at the cold mask of his. He can see Sherlock thinks he's one of them. He can hear his teammates' snickers and excitement. He's in between Sherlock and his team. He squares his shoulder and sees red. He also sees Sherlock's eyes crack a bit of fear in them and he wants to vomit if Sherlock thinks he will actually beat him up. He turns around to face Moran with his deathly glare - worse than ever. They step back a little, "Oi Captain! We said beat _him _up, not us!" One of his team says.

* * *

"I will not beat up Sherlock." He watches the scene in front of him. His eyebrows rise at the mention of his name. _HIS_ name. "Let. Him. Go." John continues.

"Okay. Okay!"

"Get out of my sight." They run. John is helping him.

* * *

"Get out of my sight." They all turn to walk out - he can see them run. He turns to Sherlock with soft eyes. He doesn't want to scare the guy. He lifts Sherlock's arms and turns his head side to side. "You alright?"

Sherlock looks at him in confusion, "What? Umm... Yes, yes, indeed." He mumbles quietly.

"Sorry about them. Everyone kinda thinks I'm gonna beat you up." Sherlock looks at him suspiciously. "I'm not. I don't approve of violence."

"And yet you play Rugby."

He chuckles, "True." He helps Sherlock stand up and Sherlock tumbles. "Whoa, mate. You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." Sherlock moves his hands from holding his arm as he tries to help him. "No need for help. I'm fine."

"Damn hell you're fine. I'm helping you go home."

"There's no-"

"This isn't debatable."

"Alright, doctor." He puts Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and helps him walk.

"Where?"

"Baker Street."


	5. Baker Street

"Baker Street?" He asks. "Is that where you live?"

"In a way," Sherlock replies.

"What do you mean by that?" He asks confused.

"Well I always seem to go there more often rather than my actual residence."

"And who really lives in Baker Street?" he asks. He has to know who he's leaving Sherlock with. He helps Sherlock on his feet.

"Someone I am fond of," Sherlock answers. '_Well I was not expecting that. I thought people say he doesn't like anyone._'

"Your girlfriend?" he asks. "... or boyfriend?" He adds.

"Relationships are not my area," Sherlock replies and snorts, "And no, she is not my girlfriend." Sherlock chuckles and then winces in pain.

He hails a cab and one immediately appears in front of them. He helps Sherlock get inside. Sherlock sits quietly and closes his eyes as he leans by the window. He sits beside him and Sherlock looks at him in confusion. "What?" he asks.

"... Nothing." Sherlock answers.

They sit in silence.

"Where to?" The cabbie asks.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock answers in a tired voice. The cab drives off and the two sit in silence. Sherlock keeps finding a comfortable way to sit down, quietly wincing in pain in the process, probably trying not to be heard. Although he can hear Sherlock struggling for a not-so-painful way to sit.

'_God, is this how he spends most of his time?_' He thinks with disgust. '_Those bastard will be punished through cold hard practice tomorrow._' He drifts off as the thought of his Team towering over Sherlock as they beat him up pops out of his mind.

"Yes, John Watson?" Sherlock suddenly says.

"What?" He snaps outs of his thought and sees Sherlock staring at him.

"You keep shifting from your seat. What are you thinking about?" Sherlock's voice sounds quiet and _really_ tired.

"I..." he clears his throat. '_Those eyes of yours look old._' "I just want to apologise."

"What for?" Sherlock asks, tilting his head.

"I want to apologise because of my Team. I'm sor-"

"I don't want to hear you apologise."

He looks down in guilt. '_Oh damn. I'm stupid. Why did I bother to say sorry? The man just got beaten up. for Christ's sake!_' "Oh. Right," he says.

"No no no no," Sherlock says quickly. "I meant that I don't want to hear _you_ apologise. Nor theirs, I suppose."

'_Oh wow. Wait, Sherlock doesn't want to hear those arseholes apologise?_'

Sherlock continues, "I want them to grow brains. Seriously, the seriousness of the lack of intelligence is great. Idiots, they are," Sherlock tuts. He chuckles.

The two of them keep quiet in comfortable silence as the cab continues to drive. He can't help asking, "Seriously, who are we meeting in Baker Street?"

"You'll meet her soon enough," and after five minutes, they arrive in front of a black door of 221B. "Right," Sherlock painfully tries to find his wallet in his coat pockets and blinks a few times - John notices. John, then, reaches to his own pockets and pays the driver. Sherlock looks at him in surprise. He pretends to be busy with his clothes so Sherlock doesn't get embarrassed for being surprised. "What?" He hears Sherlock whisper to himself.

He pretends not to hear him, "So, 221B Baker Street then." He gets out of the car and helps Sherlock, putting Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and he puts his arms around Sherlock since he sees Sherlock failing to stand up.

He knocks on the door to 221B and as he waits, he can hear Sherlock breathing shakily. He looks at him, he's gone all pale. The door finally opens to reveal a kind-looking woman. "Oh, Sherlock!" she says and rushes them both inside. "What happened?" The old lady asks him immediately. '_Is she his mother? Nah.. They don't even look alike much._'

"I... fell..." Sherlock answers, giving the old lady a smile. "Mrs... Hudson..." Sherlock tells him. "John... Watson..." He tells Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, Sherlock..." Mrs. Hudson says in such sadness. "Come on in," she gestures inside. "Are you hurt, dear?" she asks Sherlock as the two enters.

"Fine," Sherlock answers with the same smile.

He just stares at him in admiration. '_God, he even doesn't want to worry her. How... human of him. Sherlock Holmes IS human! The hell are you thinking, Watson!_' Sherlock removes himself from him and tries to walk up. He is amazed how strong Sherlock can be. He's obviously weak enough to collapse any moment and yet he has managed to walk upstairs already.

He follows him but a hand on his wrist stops him. He looks to see Mrs. Hudson holding his wrist. "Do you know what really happened?" Mrs. Hudson asks. Hecan see Mrs. Hudson actually knows what happened. Why is she asking him what happened, he will never know.

He looks down in guilt. '_Yes, and they all think I want to be part of it._'

"You're not one of them are you?" She asks him.

"God no," he immediately answers.

Mrs. Hudson sighs in relief. "Good," she whispers. "It's really good that someone is finally helping him. I shouldn't be the only one."

He hums in reply. '_Ouch._' He thinks. '_Sherlock must have one heck of a life._' "Right... Right..." He nods at her as they both go upstairs to see Sherlock sitting on one of the armchairs in front of the mantle. Sherlock's eyes are closed and holding himself tightly. Sherlock gives out a shaky breath.

He hears her sigh sadly. "I'll make you a cuppa; You treat his wounds."

"DAMN HIS WOUNDS!" He yells. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock both flinch at the sudden outburst. "I'm sorry. I am sorry. It's just..." he stops himself from explaining further. '_Damn your wounds Sherlock Holmes._' "Medical kit, Mrs. Hudson." She nods at him. He walks in front of Sherlock. "Let me examine those bruises or wounds or whatever you have there right now. Take that shirt off."

"But we just met," Sherlock says and he gives him a look that tells Sherlock that he doesn't want jokes at the moment.

Sherlock takes his shirt off and he is horrified with the amount of bruises and cuts on Sherlock's body. '_God, what the hell did they do to him?_'

"Two of them were wearing Football Boots," Sherlock answers.

He gives a long breath and inspects Sherlock's wounds. '_Not deep cuts. That's good. Jesus, this is horrible. Anyway, bruises will form. Need ice. Hmm... God these cuts..._' Mrs. Hudson comes back with the Medical Kit - along with an ice pack and some other things that aren't actually needed. '_Mrs. Hudson is such a saint!_'

"I'll bring your cuppa..." She says as he starts helping Sherlock with his wounds.

"God, what did they do before I came?" he asks Sherlock as he finishes bandaging up his wounds. Sherlock shrugs in answer. "Fine. You won't tell me, I respect that." Sherlock looks at him like he's an alien from another universe. Sherlock nods at nothing. He sits on the armchair in front of Sherlock's. Mrs. Hudson comes back with tea and biscuits and pours tea for both of them. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"You're quite the professional in tending his wounds," she comments.

"John aspires to be a doctor but he is an adrenaline junkie." Sherlock's words speed up. "Although I wouldn't know how the two would connect. He does like to help but he is as addicted to the thrill as his sister and father is addicted to alco-"

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolds. He sees Sherlock's head snap up to Mrs. Hudson like Sherlock just noticed her presence as well as his. "Sorry about that John," Mrs. Hudson tells him.

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson." She gives him a warm smile. "I should get going. It's getting late," he says standing up.

"It's really nice to meet you, John."

"You too, Mrs. Hudson." He points a finger at Sherlock. "Don't wet the bandages." Sherlock nods but he can see a hint of a smile.

He leaves 221B, feeling guilty for Sherlock's state, and feeling like he wants to punch Sherlock's attackers.


	6. Little Something

He marches through the crowd. Uncaring about the stares. He pushes - too gentle to be rude - everyone in his way as he goes to his destination. He didn't have a good sleep last night. He kept having images of an unmoving corpse with the face of Sherlock Holmes. He may not know the guy but he doesn't want to see someone die because of a beating. He saw it once, he's not going to see it again.

* * *

Everyone whispers about the Freak and the Captain. They all saw Sherlock Holmes. Bruises and cuts everywhere. Since the rumour of John's beating wasn't corrected, they decided to stay away from John Watson as much as possible. So when they see John Watson marching in the corridor, with that look of murder on his face, they part almost immediately. Goodness knows who he'll beat up this time.

* * *

He feels everyone looking at him but he doesn't care at all. He just wants to give somebody a certain something. His mind flashes back from the events yesterday. That calm but alert look on Sherlock's face. The little panic behind those eyes when he got angry. He shakes his head to remove the thought. He keeps coming back until he bumps into someone - then he comes back to reality.

He hears some, "Oh shit.." and some, "Oh god..." and some, "Oh dear..." around him. He looks up to see Sherlock Holmes looking back at him, with bruises on his face, still a bit stiff, though.

Silence washes over the whole place. Everyone is looking at them. John wonders what they are all thinking, what are they preparing themselves for? "I see your bruises are healing," He tells Sherlock. He can hear some people's breath hitch. '_God, these people._'

"I had a good doctor," Sherlock replies with a smile and John smiles with him.

"Of course you did," he says, rolling his eyes. Knowing his level of brilliance in medicine. Fuck yeah he's a good doctor.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. "Yes..." He awkwardly says.

"Good to see you," hepats him on the back and carries on walking. He turns around and sees everyone is looking at him like he just grew another head at the back of his neck.

* * *

'_Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you._'

A mild sentence. Four words and four syllables. And yet they manage to make such an idiotic impact on Sherlock's mind. He shakes his head in disbelief. John probably just says that to everyone.

And yet he isn't like everyone now, is he?

He's Sherlock "Freak" Holmes. He will never be like everyone. And that is both a good thing and a bad thing. It's a good thing since he is unique and is not as stupid as everyone else he meets. A bad thing since he's too different to be a part of everyone. He's an alien.

Who cares anyway? It's not important. It's just titles.

Idiots like titles.

'_Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you._'

He just wants to get that stupid sentence off his head. It's just a four-word sentence. Nothing special about that. And yet there is. None has told him that before. And yet someone as average as John Watson passes through his boring life and clicks a trigger. How can an average person be such an interesting impact on someone above-average as Sherlock Holmes?

No, he denies it completely. He's thinking too much of himself. He doesn't care about John Watson. He's just as stupid as everyone else.

And yet he helped him from Moran yesterday.

No, no. John Watson is basically a vigilante in school. Punching bullies - he winces at the word. He doesn't have bullies. No. Bullies are people who prey on people who are lonely, different, sad, disgusting and pathetic. '_Is that not what you are?_' A little voice creeps at the back of his head.

'_Shut up you ludicrous voice. I do not need your foolish lies._' he thinks.

'_And yet you still let me talk to you._'

He mentally slaps himself - as he slaps himself in reality as well. He hits one of the bruises. It stings but he's had worse.

He whispers. "Good to see you too." And yet no one hears him.

* * *

"Oi John!" Greg runs to him from the school to the benches at the back garden.

"Hey mate!"

"What the heck happened to Sherlock's bloody face? Didn't I tell you not to do anything violent!?" Greg tells him.

"Greg! How many times do I have to bloody tell you that I don't want to beat up Sherlock?! Why the hell do you keep blaming this on me, Greg Lestrade?"

"I'm just detecting what could happen here," Greg raises his hands in defence. "Not accusing you!"

"But why do I feel like that's exactly what you're doing? Hmm?"

"Okay! I admit! I'm sorry!"

"See? Was that so hard?" He shrugs as he continues his book.

"You know," Greg starts and he secretly listens but his eyes stay on the book. "Sometimes I forget you're such a swot."

He looks up at the book with an offended look and Greg shrugs. "Oh come on, don't deny it. You basically read every single medical book your mum owns. And don't tell me you keep trying to make good grades. God, you're a swot and _everyone_ forgets about that thing in you."

"Well, people like my good looks and my brilliant arse."

Greg rubs his face with his palm. "You're so confident with yourself that it's getting annoying."

"I'm ace, you're not." he replies.

"Shut up, swot."

"Shut up, bitch."

"Oi!"

"What? You're a dog and you're female!"

"I'm one hundred percent male that I eat rocks for cereal without any milk!"

He mocks a fake-gasp and talks in a five-year old voice, "Wow mister, you're so strong."

"Damn you, John." and they both laugh.

* * *

After detention - goodness knows what he did this time - he walks around the school. Since this morning, people whispers around him, both in amusement and satisfaction. They snigger at him as they see his poor state. Weak and bruised. Beaten up. He winces at that.

He goes around the school, trying to find John Watson. He wants to ask him why he helped him. No, scratch that. He would try to talk to him and observe his behaviour and probably find out his - probably sick - intentions.

He was fooled for a moment. He is fascinated with how good John pretends to be a good person around him. Because it would be ridiculous for someone like John Watson to be nice to someone like Sherlock Freak Holmes, right? Why would John ruin his own image by helping him? Clearly there's a bigger picture around this and Sherlock would find out what.

As he walks around the corner, he is faced with the backs of Rugby Players. Probably having a meeting. Which means John would be with them. It would be better if he'd just wait at the corner. He walks back and leans his head on the wall, being casual and all. He takes out a cigarette.

He has nothing better to do and so he tries to listen to whatever boring things Rugby Players talk about. That's when he hears John's voice. "-anymore. Are we clear?" Commanding, firm, perfect for a soldier.

He hasn't heard this kind of silence. You'd hear an ant walking.

"I said. Are. We. Clear?" Soldier indeed.

He hears hums of agreement.

"Speak up!" John stomps his foot.

"Yes! Yes!" The other say.

"I don't want today's events to happen again. And if you even dare to try and test me, I will take my fist out and punch you all harder than I've ever done before. On the weakest spots of your anatomy. Clear?"

"Yes, sir!" He can hear the perfect hum of satisfaction from him.

"Get out of my sight." says John Watson, army... doctor... John Watson, army doctor.

Some of the other players walk in front of him. Some doesn't even notice him. He sees some have sprains on their arms, some are limping. Moran has a bloody nose and a cut on his cheek. A guy with black hair in a suit walks towards him and they both talk. Moran then kicks on the wall in anger and they both leave. Some catch his eye and give him the dirtiest look in human history. John is the last to go round the corner and sees Sherlock.

John has signs that he would have some bruises on his face. "Hey, Sherlock!" John then frowns.

'_Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock._' Sherlock shakes his head to remove the voice. "Watson," he offers his hand and John hesitantly shakes it.

"Didn't know you smoke," John says, still frowning. "Not good for lungs."

He shrugs in reply. "It would seem that you had a meeting with your team."

"Yeah. Yeah, we did. Moran wasn't too happy," John chuckles.

"I bet," he replies. "What happened here anyway? Fight while practising?" He raises his brow as he stubs out his cigarette.

"A little something like that." He narrows his eyes at him but John just stares back. It's clear to him that John was the one who did all those cuts and bloody noses on them. He's hand looks bruised. So he lets go of the topic.

"Good punch." He suddenly says.

"Yes, must have been. Moran's all bloody."

"You'd know." John gives him a look. "You better treat your knuckles. I don't suppose you'll get caught but let's avoid suspension." John clears his throat and looks around nervously. "Are you all right?" he suddenly says. '_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. What the hell is asking that for?_'

"Of course I'm all right."

"You have just beaten up a man."

"Yes I-" He looks at him closely and John stares back with a look. "That's true, innit?" John smiles but he remains to look at him closely. "But he isn't a very nice man." He nods in agreement.

"No. No, he isn't really, is he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful player."

He chuckles and they both walk. "That's true. He is an awful player. You should have seen the kick he did to that wall!"

The two giggles.

'_Maybe I miscalculated about John Watson._'


	7. Doors - Faces

John has defended, and befriended him in a matter of two days of meeting him. He's never met someone like John before. He's extremely loyal. Even if he is an odd bloke, John still sees him as a person. Well he hopes that John thinks he is human. Everyone in school say that he doesn't deserve him and that he shouldn't be friends with him because he is anti-social.

He observes John. Compared to him, John is sociable. But if you look at him in another point-of-view. He isn't much. He's feared and admired but he doesn't have much friends either. He seems to get along with '_Gavin? Geoff? Graham?_' Lestrade the most. Others are just colleagues and other players or classmates. But friends, he isn't close to anyone much. He doesn't make friends easily.

The two have been in lots of trouble but they seem to get away with it. Sherlock makes excuses and the two are always let go. They've broken into the Headmaster's office. They've been chased by some kids in an alley. They've been almost kidnapped by a mad cabbie. Basically, both their lives turned around when the two met. And they couldn't have it any other way.

* * *

He is glad. John doesn't mind when he rants. He doesn't mind when he experiences his black moods either. In a way, John actually lessened his black moods - of which he is grateful for. But sometimes he can feel John suddenly looking at him and seeing something on him that he can't but he won't say anything about it. Until...

"Sherlock, where did this come from?" John asks, pointing at his cheek.

"What?" Sherlock raises his hand and puts it on his cheek, rubbing something. "What is it?"

"It's a bruise, Sherlock."

He raises his head in realisation and hums, "Oh."

"Sherlock, where the hell did that come from? Because I made sure that the other Rugby Players wouldn't harm you in anyway."

"I bumped it when I fell out the bed," he answers.

"You fell out of bed?"

"Yes, my feet were tangled with the sheets and I fell when I tried to stand up. Hit my face on the floor hard."

"You do know that I am good with medicine, right? Seeing that my mother is a doctor and I want to be a doctor as well?"

"Yeah... So..."

"So that means I know how much force will be needed to get a bruise that bad!"

John doesn't notice him flinch when he yelled the last word, "It was worth a try."

"Why won't you just tell me the truth?"

"Because it's more embarrassing than you think."

John asks quietly, "Why? What happened?"

He sighs, "I always go to this abandoned house," John nods. "The door there is always hard to open and without thinking, I pull it with much force. Apparently, the door isn't attached to the doorway any more and I pulled it too much, accidentally hitting my face with too much force. Resulting with this," he gestures to his face.

John laughs hard and he laughs with him. "And here I thought Moran got a hold of you," John says.

"Well, who knew a door could be a great attacker these days?"

"That's one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard in my entire life."

"And you dance passionately while listening with your earphones!"

The two laughs again and he can't help but feel glad to finally have a friend, at last.

* * *

John's been forcing him to eat again. He hasn't eaten for two days and John is getting angry at him. "Sherlock, I have read a lot about nutrition and health and listen to me when I say that you. need. to. eat!"

"It is not needed for the time being. Besides, a man named Angelo - neighbour of mine - was just suspected of murder. I keep trying to tell the police that he wasn't even in the country when it happened! They're not listening!"

"Of course they won't listen, Sherlock," he looks at John.

"Why not?"

"Because they're adults and they think a teenager's opinion is not needed. Even if it is right and that's their biggest mistake. Not listening."

"And who told you that?"

"My mother."

"Why would your mother say something like that?" he asks.

"Because she wants me to see what is right."

"She has a point. Fine. I'll just call someone later to help me talk with the police."

"Who will you call?"

"The most dangerous man you'll meet."

John gives him a horrified look, "And you're going to call him?"

"It's fine..." '_Just my brother._'

"Sherlock. I won't allow this."

"You're not my mother, John."

And the two are kept in silence. John eats his lunch while he goes through an advanced book about Chemistry.

"What's your family like?" John asks, suddenly.

He looks up from his phone. "What?"

"I said, 'what's your family like?'."

"Why ask?"

"Because you know so much about my family. I want to know about yours."

"I don't see how this-"

"Fine! Fine! You won't tell me! Fine!" John huffs in annoyance.

He rolls his eyes, "Fine. I have a mother, a father and a brother. There, happy?"

"A brother? Whoa..." Silence. "That's all?"

"What _else_ do you want to know?" he asks, confused and frustrated. '_What's the point in asking about my family?_'

"I don't know... Are they fine? What do they usually do? Just talk.."

"Why?"

"Well it's unfair that you know almost everything happening in my family. I think I should have the right to know yours. And no, I'm not as observant as you, I can't figure it out just by looking at you."

He sighs, "My parents are both often at work although sometimes they'll be at home. They don't actually have working hours. They're just... Honestly, I don't know what their jobs are..." He sees John grow confused. "I never bothered to ask," he shrugs. "My brother's working as the shadow of the government. He actually made his own job. Working like a spy, having so many jobs of 'National Importance'," he rolls his eyes.

John laughs and he looks at John closely. "Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere."

"There I talked about my family. May I not talk any more?" he asks, annoyed and John shrugs, finishing his meal.

* * *

After school, he walks alone to his house. Ever since meeting John Watson, school hasn't been hell at all. He's grateful. '_Sherlock Holmes? Grateful?_' He chuckles. Two more blocks to his house and he thinks about John Watson. The only person who willingly approached him and became kind to him - even knowing how much of an awful obnoxious arsehole he is. But come to think of it, John Watson isn't normal himself. He can just adjust quickly to ordinary people but if you keep him alone long enough. He'd be extremely different. He chuckles. John Watson, army doctor.

He reaches his house. Holmes Manor. He sighs. He is aware that he has the biggest house in the block and he doesn't even want to think of it. No way is he going to let John Watson reach his house. The house stares at him intimidatingly and he frowns. This is his house for Christ's sake. '_Certainly isn't your home._' He removes the thought immediately.

'_Now then. Better prepare for another "door to my face"._' He thinks as he opens the door.


	8. There's More

He can't help but get even more curious and suspicious. He sees him coming towards him with the shadow of a dark hero... He can't help but think like Sherlock's this sort of dark mysterious person who secretly helps people. He secretly helps others with their lost items and such... Sherlock keeps telling him that it's all in the adrenaline and the mystery... He thinks that's bullshit. He thinks - no - he _knows_ that Sherlock likes helping people.

Which is why he likes protecting Sherlock from those arseholes. If Sherlock is actually a good person, why the hell would others treat him like dirt? That's very unfair. He threatened the bullies enough. Moran and his other weird dark-haired friend are a good distance away from them now...

But how does Sherlock still get bruises?

"Sherlock, we really have to talk about this," he tells him.

"Talk about what?" Sherlock asks casually, walking beside him.

"These bruises! There's more of them!" He loudly whispers. Loudly whispers indeed. Good thing no one's around here. They always meet at the abandoned park beside the school an hour before school starts.

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock shrugs. "Probably in my sleep."

He pinches his nose, "Oh really? Yeah, good deduction, Sherlock. How smart of you."

"Thank you."

"That was sarcasm you idiot."

"I know."

"Did you get in another fight."

"John, you sound like a mother."

"I'm basically you're mother!" He says, frustrated and Sherlock gives him a look. He sighs. "You know what? Fine. Have it your way. I won't ask."

"Good. Your endless chatter annoys me."

"Endless cha-" he stops himself. He huffs and carries on walking with Sherlock. They reach a bench. "I want to sit," he tells him and the two sits quietly on the bench. "You're getting even more impossible to talk to nowadays."

"I was never aware I'm even _more_ impossible to talk to..."

"You're worse than a brick wall," John sighs. "Why won't you just tell me who keeps adding those bruises on your face?"

"Because it's none of your business," Sherlock snaps and John shuts up.

He did not expect that at all. Sherlock Holmes just bloody told him that something is not his business. '_What a cliché thing for someone to say and now even the great Sherlock Holmes says such a cliché thing? Something's off but what is it? Is it some people before who beats the shit out of-'_

"Shut up," Sherlock suddenly snaps, bringing John back to reality.

"I'm not saying anything."

"You were thinking, it's annoying," '_That's the Sherlock I know.'_

* * *

Johns starting to get suspicious, he can feel that. He doesn't want to tell John because it doesn't really matter, does it? Okay, he admits that to John, it would matter but that's just because John has a strong moral principle... If he tells him, John will get all military and angry... He doesn't really need John's help anyway. But the bruises are adding more daily.

If only there are other ways to- he'll have to negotiate. John's been such a good friend. '_Friend. Friend. What a foreign word for me to use it to such an ordinary person. No. John's not ordinary. He has a part of him that differentiates him from others. Probably why his other friends hate him. I should write a blog about suppressed hatred in close proximity! I'd base it entirely on his friends. Easier.'_

He shakes his head. But the thought that he'd see the hatred in looks. But he doesn't see it in John's face when John looks at him. It gives him hope that he can have a friend. He's an obnoxious arsehole, he's hopeless. But then there's John and maybe... Just maybe... He can..

He reaches his house and opens the door.

"Where have you been?" He hears someone yell from the sitting room.

"School," he yells back, hanging his coat on the coatrack.

"At this late in the hour?" he hears him and he checks his watch. Ten o'clock at night. He must have drifted off when he was hanging out at Montague Street. '_Welp_.' "Come here."

He walks in the sitting room and finds him sitting on his usual armchair. "Yes, sir?"

"Where have you been? And I want a proper answer this time."

"Montague Street."

"And what were you doing there?" His voice is stern, angry. He inwardly winces at his tone.

"Thinking."

**THWACK!**

And the first slap hits his face. '_Left hand, ring on. Sucks the fact that he's left-handed.'_

"What did I tell you about dozing off?" He stands up and towers over him.

"That it's a good rest?" He says sarcastically.

**THWACK!**

"I don't need that foul mouth of yours, William."

_'Ugh. William. Stupid first name.'_

"Now tell me what you were _really_ doing."

"I already said-"

**THWACK!**

"Stop lying to me, you no good useless arse."

"I'm not-"

**THWACK!**

"Do you want to continue?"

"No."

**THWACK!**

"What were you doing in Montague Street?"

"NOTHING! I SAID NOTHING!" he yells at his father.

_Bad mistake._

His father steps towards him but he keeps his ground. He tries to not-show that he's getting intimidated by his own father. He can handle him. '_Eyes, little squint in the eyes, means either humour, happiness or anger. Clearly means the latter. Anger at me. For getting late? For yelling? No, false. For breathing. Stance, getting ready. Fist, clenching and unclenching. Leaning over, cornering me. Not working in my behalf. Fist moving upwards. About to hit me. Dodge!'__  
_

He dodges the first punch but his father is smarter than being tricked. He didn't notice his other hand getting ready for the dodge and so he hits him on the chest. Sherlock falls on the floor, coughing, as if the wind is punched out of him.

"Think you can outsmart me, hmm?" He leans over him. "You're forgetting, offspring, I'm more intelligent than you'll ever be."

He kicks him once on the ribs and Sherlock closes his eyes as he absorbs the pain. He doesn't dare make a sound. A sound means that he doesn't approve, that he's in pain. And he doesn't want to give his father the satisfaction he wants.

"I'd have been a better man if you never turned out the way you are. You could've been like your brother, Mycroft. But no, you decided to be a freak in your nature. Pathetic," Siger Holmes tuts. "A Holmes, being a pathetic one as you are. Not the kind I'd want you to be. So I have to punish you instead. Grow a brain, you're being slow and stupid, William." Siger scolds him and he mentally rolls his eyes.

_'Another one of his stupid lectures.'_

"Get your presence out of here. I don't want you lowering my intelligence as I talk to you. Don't talk. Just leave..." He pauses.

_'Can I move?'_

"NOW!" Siger yells and he jumps up, ignoring the pain in his body. He runs to his room. '_Dizzy, spinning endlessly. Stop. Shut up and deal with this.' _He goes to his room and gets a gel pack from his mini-refrigerator Mycroft got him last year so he wouldn't 'spoil the good refrigerator.' He looks at his face in the mirror.

_'A new cut, from father's ring, no doubt. John would interrogate me again.' _He rolls his eyes at this.

He removes his shirt and sees new bruises coming out from the other healing bruises, cuts and scrapes. He looks like a map. No, he is a map. A map of all the 'misbehaving acts' he does. His parents should just call it for what it really is. A map of how much his family hates him.

Good thing Mycroft isn't in the manor much anymore. Often out in his office. Probably stalking him whenever he comes out of the manor. He already got to talk to him about John. Reminding him of Redbeard.

Stupid Mycroft.

Redbeard is his first best friend. John is his first human best friend. And he'll always owe them a lot.

He just have to do his best and keep John from his family.


	9. What's Wrong

'_This is really getting out of hand now._' He thinks as Sherlock walks towards him with a new cut on his face.

"John," Sherlock greets him.

"Sherlock, let me guess. Door on your face again?"

"No actually."

He raises his brow. '_Hope he tells me the truth this time_.'

"I fell and a nail hit my face. Cut up pretty bad. But I was able to fix it."

"And why don't I believe you?"

"How would I know? I'm not a mind-reader!"

"Sherlock, just tell me. Please, what's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing," Sherlock shrugs.

"Sherlock, please."

"John, your unnecessary begging won't get you anywhere."

"Sherlock, I _beg_ you. Tell me what's wrong."

"There's nothing wrong with me, Watson."

'_Oh. So I'm Watson now? Something's definitely off._'

"Why won't you tell me?"

"Because I have nothing to tell! Unlike you, I'm fine. I'm just clumsy! But not as clumsy as your father. I don't need your endless questions. I don't need to talk about emotions because nothing is making it move or work. My emotions are done and there's nothing wrong with me," Sherlock's talking rapidly. "Do you want me to prove it? No. Of course not. You'll probably get angry because I'm so smart and you can't keep up. Is that how your life works? Because that would be a terrible way of living. Adding up to a drunk sister and a drunk father. Clearly your mother has been too busy and now you have to handle the drunks, right? Oh what a night! And you even got the girl, Mary's number! You expecting to shag her, Watson? Because that's all you, ordinary people, do right? Brainless, endless questions, relationships, sleep with her, sleep with him, eat, sleep, be normal, boring, dull. Well I'm not like that. There's nothing wrong with me as you can see I can deduce right now which means that I am not defective. I am functioning pretty well so just. leave. it."

"That's it."

He turns around and starts to walk away.

"And where are you going?"

"Leaving."

"Why?"

"I need some air."

"You already have some air!"

"Air that doesn't have you contaminating it."

"What do you mean, 'contaminate'? I don't have a disease!"

"You're a disease, Sherlock. One I want to avoid."

"What? You're avoiding me? For what?"

"For not talking."

"Why would you want me to talk?"

He stops and looks at him. "You know what? I'll just leave you alone since you don't even care and you won't even tell me what's bugging you from the start. Don't you trust me?" Sherlock opens his mouth but John cuts him off. "You probably don't. All you care about is yourself. Well, then that's good, right? Is that good? Should I leave you with your heartless lonely self now? Because I'm offering you my friendship but you won't give me yours. You insult me in many ways and you have been basically making my girlfriends scream away when you talk to them. You laugh at my family but we're happy! It's none of your business if they drink! Maybe you are as weird as people say you are. Like the freak everyone thinks you are. Because I trust you enough to endanger my life because of your 'massive intellect' and I suppose I shouldn't have a problem with that right? But no. You don't trust me. Well then. Goodbye, Sherlock."

He turns around and walks away. He doesn't hear anything behind him. He must have shut him up. He doesn't even remember half of what he said. It all just came out of his mouth. He's just so furious. But he doesn't know why.

As he walks, he dares to look back. He doesn't see him much because he's already far away but he can see the coat. The unmoving coat. There's Sherlock. Standing on the pavement where John left him. He looks like he's very still. Unmoving. John could mistake him with a statue. But he's angry so much he turns back around and keeps walking. He doesn't see Sherlock walk the opposite direction and heading to an alley.

* * *

He screwed up. He panicked. John's gone. He wants to go back to his wife: cocaine.

* * *

Sherlock hasn't called him in two weeks. His phone won't let him call. It always goes on either voicemail or it cannot be reached. '_What's wrong, Sherlock?_'

* * *

His father found the mahogany box where he keeps his drugs.

Hit. Hit. Slap. Punch. Kick. Throw. Punch. Slap. Boot. Shoved. Pulled. Slapped. Hands on his collar. Pulls him by the neck. Can't breathe.

His mother comes in. His father removes his grip.

"What's he done this time?" Violet Holmes asks.

"This," Siger holds up the box to Violet and Mrs. Holmes gasps in horror. She sees red and nods once to Siger.

Then it continues.

* * *

Did he say something completely out of line? No it's impossible. Sherlock doesn't feel. But what if he does? Should he tell him he's sorry?

* * *

He hasn't eaten in three days. Locked in his bedroom. Oh look! They gave him dog's food.

* * *

He texts Sherlock.

'Look Sherlock. I'm sorry about what I said.  
Call me back as soon as you see this text. JW'

He never called back.

* * *

He'd rather die.

* * *

'_Where's Sherlock?_'

* * *

He runs to his window and manages to get down after spending an awful time tying things together - thank goodness for bed sheets. He runs away from his house and goes to the alley and finds a place to sleep.

Hopefully, Bill Wiggins is there. Bill is a loyal part of his Homeless Network. Helps him in finding things out. The Homeless are good spies. Will do anything for food.

He manages to get a place under a bridge. '_Better than the manor._'

* * *

He's walking quietly and the phone in the phonebox rings. It's been happening to him since this morning.

He takes the phone, "Hello."

"There's a camera on the building to your right."

"Who's this?"

"Do you see the camera, Mister Watson?"

"Yes, I do."

"Watch." The camera turns.

"How are you doing that?"

"There's another camera on the building on the lamp post to your left, d'you see it?" He hums. The camera turns as well. "And now the camera on the building opposite you," it turns.

"Who are you?"

"Get in the car, John Watson." And a car drives in front of him and a man opens the door for him.

* * *

It's cold. Withdrawal is a bitch so he'd rather not go in there. He shoots up.

* * *

He enters a very posh building. And is told to go an office. That's when he sees a man in his twenties standing by the fireplace.

"Have a sit, John."

"No," the man looks at him. "Who are you and what do you want?"

The man laughs, "The bravery of the will-be soldier. Though bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity. I insist, sit."

"Who. Are. You?"

"Do you know a sixteen-year named Sherlock Holmes?"

"Depends."

"I want you to tell me where he is."

"Why?"

"Because I'm interested on his whereabouts."

"Interested in Sherlock's? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

The man laughs, "You've met him. How many friends do you think he has?"

"One."

The man narrows his eyes at him. "You're very loyal."

"Will you just hurry up? I'm late for dinner with my family."

The man tilts his head at him. "Just tell me where he is. Now."

"Why? Why would I do that?"

"I worry about him. Constantly."

"Right."

He starts to stand up. "Stop and sit down." John crosses his arms. He looks at the man. He isn't smug anymore. He seems business-like. He meant business. He sits down. "Has he ever called you?"

"I want a deal."

The man leans back on his chair. "A deal?"

"You tell me who you really are, and I'll stick with not talking at all."

The man raises his brow. "He's been missing," he tells him instead.

"Who's been missing?"

"Sherlock."

"What?" John's full attention goes to the man.

"I have been on the job to take an eye on him. Cameras outside of his house, his school. Although he manages to hide from my cameras, he cannot simply vanish out of thin air. I manage to track him down before with his mobile phone but his phone is abandoned somewhere on the streets, dead. We cannot find him and we were hoping you'd know his whereabouts."

"Why do you need to find him?"

"Because I have to."

"Why?"

"He's been gone for three weeks. No phone calls. No traces. Completely disappeared. We need your help."

"Then tell me who you are and tell me why you need _my_ help to find him."

"My brother and I have such a difficult relationship and you seem to gain his trust and therefore you could be informed of his whereabouts. I have seen the new found happiness in his eyes, now where is he? Did he leave? Where is Sherlock Holmes? Have you seen him?"

He's blank. '_So this is the infamous Mycroft.'_ He thought Sherlock has been exaggerating when he said his brother is a stalker.

He clears his throat to answer. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I don't know where he is. He hasn't called back."

"Would you know why he would leave so suddenly?" The two becomes silent as they both think of reasons.

He can't think. He doesn't know what's wrong.


	10. I'm Stupid

This is eating him alive. That's one way of saying it. It feels like something is biting on every part of his skin, ripping his body apart, and being shredded with him still feeling it. Wait, he _is_ being bitten by something.. Guilt. He, John Watson is guilty. And he doesn't even know why. He hadn't seen Sherlock in three months. Three months! That's long, considering that this is Sherlock we are talking about. The bloke won't stay away for more than ten hours away from him... before..

Three months.

He's getting depressed. He's lost his best friend, hasn't he? '_Jesus no. God no._' He hasn't had this much friendship with anyone other than Sherlock. Sherlock isn't just his best friend, he is the best man that he's ever known.

'_What is he's dead? OH GOD?! WHAT IF HE'S DEAD?!_'

Sherlock leaving him has already killed him inside. And he's feeling guilty for it. Because he knows it something that he said - for once - and he probably said something he cannot take back... The worst of it all - he can't remember what it was.

* * *

He left his own place under the bridge already. He kept going to places where there is shelter, and food - hopefully. No one seems to judge him when he's with the other homeless. '_I wonder what my parents are thinking right now? Happy that I'm gone in their lives? Or furious because they'd have to lie when someone asks them where their younger son is. Mycroft's probably happy he doesn't have his stupid brother anymore. John's probably happy, too. He did say he wanted to leave me._'

He thought bitterly as he lies down on the cold ground, trying hard to sleep. But his mind won't stop thinking. He misses them.

'_You shouldn't miss anything or anyone. No one misses you in that life. Deal with the facts._'

He shakes his head to clear his thought of his old life. He even left his violin.

'_Stop thinking of your past life._'

Spoken as if he's dead.

* * *

"John, you alright?" Greg asks him as he sits on the bench near the school. He looks up at him. Greg has his concerned eyes on him. "John?"

He blinks, "Yeah, yeah... I'm fine..."

Greg sits beside him. "We can always go to a pub, you know?"

"Yeah, I know... But... I don't want to drink... I know what you're trying to do, Greg. I appreciate it but I don't think I want to talk."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help," before he responds, Greg raises his hand to keep him quiet, "I know you know. I just want to remind you. In case you need it in the future."

"Thanks, mate," John tells him.

Greg pats him on the shoulder once and leaves him alone with the thought of a dead bloody Sherlock on the pavement.

* * *

Mary has been very patient with him. She listens to him as he talks about his sadness about Sherlock. They're both in his bedroom. He's sitting on the bed. She's kneeling behind him, rubbing his back as she listens to him, giving words of encouragement, telling him it's okay. He has been grateful. She's the best girlfriend he could ever hope for.

"London's streets aren't exactly safe, you know?"

"It's okay. He's alive, John. He's probably alive."

"Probably?"

"Definitely."

"Definitely?"

"Definitely alive. You shouldn't worry. He'd come back again with that smug grin you keep talking about and then you'd get angry at him and all that..." she reassures him.

He turns his head to look at her and he smiles at her. She gives him the same smile and she leans forward to kiss him.

* * *

He's shooting up again. He should stop but this is the only way to keep his mind off his old life, the pain, the hurt, the suffering.

Maybe he should end it all together?

No, he's being stupid.

He shouldn't end it, not yet. He can still survive this, hopefully.

* * *

It's been six months.

Sally sees him and walks towards him. "Oi John."

He turns to look at her. "Yes?"

"Got rid of the Freak, at last, huh?" she asks.

He gives him his most threatening look. Sally swallows and steps back. "No."

"Where is he, then?" she raises her brow.

"Off somewhere."

He just turns to leave without saying anything. He doesn't want to hear anything from her.

* * *

"Hello?" she asks through his phone.

"New name?"

"Anthea."

"Well, _Anthea_, I wish to speak with him. Now. Right now. Fast. Do it Quickly. Now. This minute."

"Right."

He hears her walk, her heels aren't exactly quiet. The door opens.

"Phone call for you..." ... "Not now, I'm busy." ... "It's your brother."

He hears documents fall.

"Phone," he hears Mycroft.

He hears _Anthea_ walk over to him and give him his phone. He hears the door open and close.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

He hears Mycroft sigh and he's probably rolling his eyes. "I know where you've been for the past six months..."

"And you didn't kidnap me? Why Mycroft Why?"

"Well, reports show that you're entertained with the course of events. And we saw your cipher. Pigpen cipher isn't exactly hard to decipher, brother."

(It was a cipher saying, "Mycroft I am fine. Don't bother to find me. I'm happier alone or else I'll show the world the Christmas Fiasco 1993. You know I have the photographs.")

"It shut you up."

"And why do you call now?"

"It took me six months to get my mind straight."

"And?"

"I'm coming back, duh."

"Then why are you calling me?"

"Because you've a car. Cars... Yes cars..."

He hears Mycroft sigh. "Where?"

"You know already, seriously!"

Mycroft's sigh confirms it.

"Could you do it quickly?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm stupid."

And he hangs up as his body starts to convulse. He overdosed.

* * *

He went with the driver to fetch Sherlock. Immediately. They're only five minutes away with the speed the driver is using. He already called 999 to get to Sherlock as quickly as possible but he brought his own medical team - currently on the ambulance behind him. He knows something is wrong since the beginning of his conversation with him. He deduced that he's on the floor and did something extremely stupid indeed. '_God, Sherlock. Why would you do this to yourself?_' He thinks of a Little Sherlock climbing up a tree, knowing perfectly well that he'd get hurt. Didn't take him by surprise when he fell.

"Hurry. Now." He tells the driver.

They reach just in time as the medics are about to put Sherlock in their ambulance. He takes over and orders his private medics to bring him.

They get to the hospital.

* * *

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

He opens his eyes. Hospital room. What happened? IV drip. Dark night. Shadow beside his bed.

He blinks a few more times and opens his eyes to see a very tired looking Mycroft, sleeping on the chair beside him.

He tries to remember but his brain is still fuzzy and he's so dizzy. He falls asleep.

* * *

He opens his eyes again and sees Mycroft talking to a doctor on the doorway in hushed tones. "My-" he starts but his voice is just a hoarse whisper.

Mycroft seems to hear because his head snaps to look at Sherlock.

Now to the annoying medical doctor-patient-relative thing.

* * *

"Rehab," Mycroft tells him.

"No."

"It's not a question. You _are_ going to rehab whether you want it or not."

"No."

"It's either Rehab or the manor."

His blood goes cold. '_What to do? What to say? If I answer with the manor, I'd get stuck with my parents and Mycroft will be there. The two of them would fake getting concerned with me and it would be wrong to see their murderous eyes with the fake kind smile. If I answer with rehab, he'll be suspicious._'

"I can stop myself."

"And look where that got you."

"I didn't know it was _that_ much in the syringe!"

"Why? Too high to notice?" Sherlock growls at him. Mycroft tuts. "Temper, brother mine."

"Shut up, fatty."

"Shut up, stupid."

"Shut up, arsehole."

"Now, now." ... ... ... "Rehab."

"NO!"

"FINE! We'll settle with the manor then!"

If he is seen, he looks annoyed. If he is understood, he's terrified.


	11. John Watson

"John Watson... John Watson..." Sherlock mumbles in his sleep. He hasn't left Sherlock's side ever since they brought him in the hospital. _Anthea_ - which is her name for the week - helps him get all that he need: clothes, food, reminders, all that. He knows his brother needs to talk to John Watson. Even he himself hasn't seen John ever since he first kidnapped him. But for now, he stops the idea of kidnapping him and dragging him here. Sherlock needs to clean up his own mess.

He has lots of things to talk about. He cares for his brother. He's his family. '_Speaking of family... Better call the parents..._'

"Siger Holmes." His father says in the other line.

"It's me..."

"Mycroft, is that you? You haven't called me in ages! How's work?"

"Fine, I suppose... Listen... There's something I have to tell you..."

"What is it?" his father asks, concerned.

"It's Sherlock..."

"What about him?"

"We found him."

"Oh? You did?"

"Yes... He's in the hospital now..."

"The hospital? What happened? Did he get in a fight?"

"He does have plenty of old bruises and scars, yes. But no, that's not why he's in hospital..."

"What is it?"

"He overdosed..."

"..."

"He flatlined as well..."

He doesn't hear anything from the other line. '_God, he's furious. Which would mean mummy would be as furious as he... Two peas in a pod._'

"I have a plan..." He starts to tell his father what he has in mind for Sherlock and his father patiently listens, not saying a word...

"Alright. I think we can manage that..." His father replies after he tells him his plan.

"Great."

"Nice to talk to you, son. But I was hoping you'd call us to check up on us. Not like this..."

"I promise to call more..."

"Alright... Goodbye..."

He hangs up and sits on the chair beside Sherlock again. He receives a text from _Anthea_.

'Brought you some food, sir.  
May I come in?  
- Anthea'

'Yes, you may.  
M'

Anthea comes in with a tray and puts it on the table beside him. Then she goes on her phone, "Cancelled your meetings for the rest of the day."

"Yes, thank you."

And she leaves the room, giving the brothers their privacy.

* * *

Sherlock wakes up. '_Finally._' he thinks. Those eyes of Sherlock's open, bit off and then there he is, deducing. He's proud of him but he would NEVER say that out loud. Sherlock finally looks at him. "Welcome back," he whispers at Sherlock and he realises that it sounds a bit menacing. But too late to change the tone.

"Back from where?"

"The dead."

Sherlock scoffs, "Absurd."

"Absurd?" He raises his brow. '_It's difficult to keep my tone down._' "You flatlined, stupid."

"I'm not stupid!"

"You're a very stupid boy! Mummy and daddy are crossed!" he says loudly, but not loud enough to be heard outside.

'_Did he just flinch?... No... Ridiculous... This is my brother... My ridiculous eyes and their silly illusions..._'

"Oh who cares?" Sherlock tells him.

He sighs. "By the time you are discharged, I'm sending you back home."

"God," Sherlock sulkily replies.

"It's for your own good. You should've thought of the consequences before you started... it..." He cannot even think of saying the word, 'drugs.' It makes him sick knowing his brother is a junkie. A homeless junkie for months.

"Not my fault," Sherlock shrugs.

"Then whose fault is it?" He challenges.

Sherlock pauses to think, "I'll think of someone..."

"Yes, you'll think of someone... Like a certain friend of yours..."

"I don't have friends."

"And what do you call John Watson? Your boyfriend?"

Sherlock gives him a look. "We were never a couple. And he and I are not friends," Sherlock rolls his eyes. He keeps silent, looking at his umbrella which he is using to hold his weight, like his cane. "What?" Sherlock suddenly says. Irritated.

"Nothing."

"I know that silence. What?"

"Well I'd better let you recover. You still have to get through all this, haven't you?"

"What?"

"The family will probably be the only one to keep you company."

"Mycroft!"

"That's what people do, Sherlock. They move on. I warn you. Don't get involved."

"I'm not involved!"

"No."

"Watson asked me to help him with school work, how could I say no?"

"Absolutely."

"I'm not involved."

"I believe you. Really I do. Have a lovely time in the hospital, Sherlock. Keep calm and do try to rest."

"I will," Sherlock closes his eyes.

"Oh, by the way, Sherlock?" Sherlock raises his brow, still with his eyes closed. "Do you remember... Redbeard?"

Sherlock's eyes snap open in an instant. He blinks a few times, '_Subconsciously tightening his jaw. Clenching his fist. I struck a cord... Good._'

Sherlock looks at him. "I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft," a whisper.

"No, of course you're not. Enjoy not getting involved." And he leaves his room but secretly stays outside. He doesn't want his brother knowing how worried he has been. He'll never hear the end of it.

* * *

They arrive. He scoffs. Of all places, it had to be the house. The door is opened for him and he climbs out. Their parents are walking towards the car. They look at him and their eyes scream "Murder!"

'_Now I need Mycroft to distract them before they unleash all hell._' Turning around, Mycroft doesn't come out of the car.

He taps the window and it rolls down. "Aren't you coming?" he asks Mycroft.

"There's a red alert at work. I have to be there in ten minutes," Mycroft answers, checking his watch.

"But how will I explain-"

"This is your fault. You need to be responsible like a decent human being. You'll probably deserve the punishment mummy and daddy will give you."

"But-"

"This is your punishment, Sherlock."

"Mycroft-"

"Let's go," Mycroft tells the driver and off he goes.

The footsteps stop behind him. '_Uh-oh_.'

"So the prodigal son finally decided to come back home," Siger says and eyes him, "You're in a lot of trouble."

"Chores. Two hours of sleep only. No contact," Violet pointedly tells him. "We'll put bars on your window and add a lock on the outside of your door. We'll use a sliding lock so you wouldn't be able to open it. No dinner at all, not until you're dead. And no, not even dog food." She continues as they all walk in the manor. They reach the door.

"Get in the house. Now." Siger orders him. His legs are trembling beneath him. Siger steps forward threateningly and whispering like the threatening evil son of a bitch that he is. "I. Said. Now."

He runs inside the manor. Siger, running after him. He hears Violet yell, "Sweetie! Don't draw too much blood! The carpet is brand new!" He runs faster.

He goes around the house, trying to find the perfect spot. A shiver runs through his spine as he hears his father yell, "Violet! Where's the poker? It's not beside the fireplace!"

"It's right between the fireplace and the chair! Use the old one! The new one is the black metallic one!"

"Okay!"

'_How can they be so casual about hitting me with a fireplace poker?! Oh right... Because I deserve this! I shouldn't have called Mycroft when I overdosed! Stupid high me!_'

He runs faster but in the end, his father manages to reach him and hits the side of his body with the poker. He moans in pain as he falls on the ground.

'_If he stabs me, I'm free. Just stab me!_'

Siger tuts, "Pathetic. You can be killed easily. Stupid move, running through the library. I know every inch of the manor."

Siger swings his poker and hits him twice. The pointy end of the poker doesn't make contact.

'_Stab me instead! Stab me instead!_'

"Now..." Siger hits him twice with the poker and drops it. "No. This doesn't feel right. I'm not amused at all," Siger puts a foot on his head to keep him in place and undoes his belt. Siger ties his belt around his hand. "This however..."

Siger swings and hits him with the belt with more force than usual. He shouts. The belt's buckle hits him. He shouts.

Siger slaps him hard in the face, "SHUT UP!"

Siger hits him multiple times with the belt.

"You. De. Serve. This. Treat. Ment." Siger hits with every word.

Siger removes his shirt hits him with the belt. "STOP!" He cries. Siger turns him around and hits him multiple times with the belt. "NO!" He shouts as the direct hits bite his skin. He can feel himself bleeding. After about twenty more hits, Siger turns him around to face him again and starts hitting him with the belt again. He screams at the top of his voice but no one can hear him. Their house is the largest.

Siger starts punching him over and over and over until he is out of breath, moaning in pain.

'_I shouldn't have called Mycroft. I should have let the overdose kill me and die._'

Siger puts a hand on his neck and starts punching him in the face with the other hand... Punching him with every word. "I. DON'T. WANT. A. JUNKIE. FOR. A. SON."

"Please..." He begs.

Siger forces him to stand up by holding his neck and slams him to the wall. "So you're begging now?"

"Can't... Breathe..." He tries to remove his father's grip on his neck but his father is too strong. "Stop..."

Siger tightens his grip and gives him another punch and he falls on the ground as Siger kicks him once... twice... thrice...

And the last though in his mind, '_I should have at least told John that I'm sorry for existing._'

Black.


	12. I'm Sorry

He wakes up in his room. And indeed, his mother did install bars on his windows... He tries to sit up from the floor but pain shoots on his body. He sits up and winces as he feels the bruises and scars. That's when he sees the medical kit on the bed. '_A medical kit? Why?_' He crawls towards it and opens it. It's a legitimate medical kit and so he drags it with him as he crawls to the mirror which he is fortunately floor-length.

'_Disgusting_.'

He sees a pale, skinny, scared lump of flesh full of bruises and scars and blood. Red-rimmed eyes. Bags under those very eyes. Tears in its eyes... Oh the tears are falling on its face. Look, its hands are shaking. More tears. He looks away, he couldn't stand seeing that poor pathetic creature.

He looks down at his body and starts treating his wounds. He's surprised how generous his parents are to let him have a medical kit inside his room.

* * *

It's been six more months since he's been held prisoner in his own room. It's been nothing but chores, clean this, clean that, punch here, kick there, slapped there. But for the past two months, they've been very careful not to let his face have cuts or bruises. He gets hungry. He probably lost more weight - and he's already underweight. He's tired. Very tired. He's not allowed to touch knives or scissors or anything sharp. They probably think he'll kill them.

He wants to. There are lots of ways to kill them. But he doesn't. Because they're still his parents.

* * *

He's finally allowed to go to school. And he begs to go outside the night before... and he kisses his parents' shoes so he would be allowed. He was kicked of course and his father slaps him once and he kisses the sole of his parents' shoes. Both dirty of course and he coughs. They allow him. He thanks them politely and smiles when he turns around. He's never been more thankful to his parents in his entire life.

So he goes outside. He looks longingly at the outside world. '_I'm outside! I AM OUTSIDE!_'

And so he visits the person he wants to see again.

* * *

"Sorry... Too many ladies..." Mary tells him as she pats his shoulder and sits in front of him. They're in a restaurant just beside the school. He's wearing his best suit and Mary is wearing a beautiful dress and she looks so... beautiful... "You okay?" And he's aware that he's staring.

"Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am fine."

She smiles at him. He chuckles. '_Beautiful._'

"Now then, what did you want to tell me?"

'_Oh god. Oh god. Oh god._'

"Uhh.. So... Mary. Listen... Um... We've been together for a year... I know we haven't been seeing each other much because of school and activities and..."

'_Just tell her._'

"Go on," she encourages.

'_Bless this lady._'

"Yes, I will. As you know, this year hasn't been easy for me... and being with you..." he looks at her eyes and she looks back... "Yeah... Meeting and being with you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened."

"I agree."

"What?"

"I agree I'm the best thing that could have happened to you."

He laughs and she chuckles.

"Sorry."

"Well no. That's umm..." He looks at her. "You know... We've just really seen each other twice in a month... With you being the responsible... uhh... student and my Rugby Practice and... um... school work and that... I just want to tell you that..."

She giggles when he keeps stuttering. He clears his throat.

"I just want to tell you..."

"... John." He hears a baritone voice beside him.

* * *

"... John." He says his name. He can see John freeze. Inhale. Exhale. Not believing. He looks up at him. Now, he's scared. He feels like John would be a bomb about to explode. But he needs that bomb and he doesn't care if it explodes and kills him.

"John?" The girl, Mary - he remembers, sitting in front of John says.

John stands up shakily and he fears John would stumble. John looks up at him and the two of them look at each other after a year.

"John, what is it? What?" Mary asks.

"Well.. I'm still... Not dead..." John looks at him and he feels nervous. '_Oh god.. I should've warned him first... What to say?_' "Bit mean, springing back to you like that, I know."

"Oh it's you..." Mary says, shocked.

"Oh yes."

"Oh my god."

"Not quite."

"You're gone. You never came back."

"No."

"You left!"

"I did."

"Oh my god! Oh my god! Do you have any idea what you've done to him!" She scolds him.

He's starting to grow nervous. John is much angrier than he thought. But he couldn't help himself. He misses John so much. After all he's been through. He wants his friend again. He doesn't even care if he's angry at him. He just wants to see him again, even if it means John doesn't.

"Okay, John. I'm suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of an apology."

John slams his fist on the table. He flinches but tries hard not to show it. Mary starts comforting John with words.

"One year..." he whispers tightly.

'_Fuck..._'

"I thought... you were gone... Hmm?"

'_Shit shit shit shit._'

"Now, you left me hanging... hmm? How could you do that?" Sherlock bites his lip. "How?" He softly but furiously asks.

"Before you do anything you might regret... One question... Just let me ask one question..." He points at John's glass... "Are you really starting on drinking now?"

He chuckles to himself. Mary laughs with disbelief. Next thing he knows, John grabs his lapels. Sherlock grabs a hold of John's wrist in an instant so he wouldn't choke him to death. Then realising that John is the one doing this, not his father, he lets him because he deserves this beating as well.

The two falls on the ground. He winces when his new cuts and bruises on his back hits the ground. John puts his hands around his neck and tightens his grip. He keeps quiet. He tries to remove John's hands. '_John! I know you're angry! Don't kill me yet! I haven't apologised to you yet!_'

Mary and some of the waiters in the restaurant grabs John and stops John from killing him. He stays on the ground, breathing... '_Air... Air... Air..._'

"Please sir. You have to leave," he hears someone tell John.

"Kids these days," he hears an old man say.

He stands up, wincing in pain. A waiter helps him up, touching his back and chest tightly to stand him up. He tries hard not to show that he's in pain.

* * *

"So, where've you been?" John asks as they sit in another diner. Mary sits patiently beside him.

"Nowhere..."

"Why?"

"I've been busy going across cities... I did take some cases with finding lost items... Like this one time, a woman named Molly Hopper lost her pet cat. I deduced carefully from the fur around her house and saw little trails going to the other side of the road... I didn't see any signs that the cat might have died... So I followed the trail until I saw the one confirming my deduction that-"

"You know for a genius you can be remarkably thick... I don't care how you spent the year, Sherlock. I want to know why."

"Why? Because a lot has asked for my consultation!" John keeps looking at him. "Oh 'Why' as in..." John nods and so does Mary. "I see, yes. 'Why?' That's a little more difficult to explain."

"I've got all night," he answers darkly.

He clears his throat. "Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft's idea." '_Idea of dumping me in the manor and then going off to live in a place on his own._'

"Oh so it's your brother's plan?"

He nods.

"Was he the only one? The only one who knew?"

"Couple of others," John lowers his head and he panics and starts to babble. "I wanted to be left alone. It was a very elaborate plan - it had to be. So the trail of fur lead me to-"

"Who else knew?" He hesitates. "Who?" John asks louder and he flinches.

"Bill."

"Bill?"

"Bill Wiggins and some of my homeless network and that's it."

"And you didn't bother to text?"

'_I want to. But I couldn't._' He keeps silent.

"So just your brother, probably your parents, some clients, and a hundred tramps?"

He chuckles. '_Silly John!_' "No! Twenty-five at most."

John jumps on him across the table. He sees the table is weak so he guides John to get across him and John throttles him to the ground. John punches him and he can feel his lip bursting. They're all thrown out again.

* * *

They're in another diner. He stands in front of Mary and John. John doesn't look at him. He winces in pain as he presses a napkin to his lip.

"So how's your sister?" He asks John.

John scoffs, "Oh like you care?"

'_Oh._' He feels a heavy weight on his chest. He cannot breathe but he puts on a brave face.

"One word, Sherlock! That is all I would have needed! One word to let me know that you're okay!"

"I've nearly been in contact so many times," he starts quietly and John laughs disbelievingly. "But under circumstances, and busy work, I couldn't."

"Why?"

"Because I've been busy and you might... you know..." '_Learn that I'm just a worthless junkie who left my own life so I would die on my own instead of dying in the hands of my parents because I'm the worst person to ever exist._'

"What?"

"Distract me from my work."

"Distract you?"

"You wouldn't understand..."

He sees John turn red with fury. "Why? Because I'm too slow for your mind?!"

He then feels a pang of guilt. He did say that the last time they saw each other. But he was confused and angry and he doesn't want John to know of what kind of person he really is... He'll be disgusted...

"You did miss me though... Admit it... The thrill of the chase from Moran... The blood pumping through your veins... The two of us against the rest of the world-"

John grabs his lapel again and he knows what he's about to do. He doesn't stop him and prepares for the blow.

Now his nose is bleeding. He falls on the ground and the manager yells at them to get out. John storms out of the diner. Mary helps him up by pulling him with his arms. His back stretches a bit and he tries hard not to moan in pain.

Mary pushes his back to stand him up and he flinches and bites his lip so hard, it draws blood... again...

She guides him outside as John hails a cab. He pinches his nose and holds a napkin on it.

"I don't understand," he tells her. "I said I'm sorry... Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"Gosh you don't know anything about human nature, do you?"

"Nature? No... Human? No."

"I'll talk him round."

"You will?"

"Oh yeah." She nods. He deduces her and everything comes out beautifully. She seems like the perfect person for John. Obviously, she is the one who helped get through all John's misery. '_She's the best for him. She makes him happy. She's important. He needs her. He loves her. I have to leave. I'll only be the burden on his shoulders. He hates me. He doesn't like me as much as I need him._'

She smiles at him and John calls for her. She gives him her farewell and follows John into the cab.

He watches them both. John doesn't even look back. "John, I'm sorry," he whispers to himself.

He turns around to leave...

And Moran and his friends pull him to the alley and they smile wickedly at him.


	13. Old Habits

It's quite a surprise, really. He's _really_ taken by surprise. Indeed, he wants to go back to his old life, not the life of drugs and abuse... He wants to go back to being a student again.. Although getting abused by the parents and doing drugs on the side, it wasn't the main focus... He wants that life again... But John doesn't want him.

And now these idiots want him.

"What?" He asks, not really in the mood right now.

"Oh, Sherlock isn't being cooperative today," a guy with jet-black hair in a suit laughs. He's leaning on the wall, hands on his pockets with a smile on his face. He tilts his head at him. "Jim Moriarty, hi," he says in a high-pitched voice.

"Irrelevant," he answers, rolling his eyes and Jim laughs.

"I can see why you like him," he tells Moran. Moran gives him a look and Jim laughs.

He is starting to really hate that laugh.

"Oh come on, captain!" One of the Rugby Team says.

'_Captain? He's the captain of the Rugby Team now? What happened to John? He loves Rugby! Why him? Moran isn't even remotely good at-_'

His thoughts stop as a hand grips his neck. Sherlock, on instinct, grips the hands tight and about to do a wrist lock when the grip stops and he stumbles backwards.

He hears Jim laughing again and he just wants to stuff Jim Moriarty's mouth with a shoe. It's getting on his nerves. "Oh-ho-ho! Look what we got here!" Jim tells everyone, circling him. "It seems our friend here is used to being strangled to death... I wonder why... Hmm..." Jim looks at him and he gives Jim a deadly glare. He can physically see the spark of crazy in his eyes. "Secretive, you are... Well I better be off... So nice to have a proper chat..."

"I didn't even get to talk," He answers and Jim grins.

"For the next few minutes, I believe that you'll lose your vocal chords..." Jim grins wickedly and he tries so hard not to kill him already. Jim leaves and the Rugby Team is staring at him with evil grins on their faces. Some are even looking at him like a drug. They really miss him, don't they?

"Watson ain't the captain now, Shercock," one of them says.

"Oh I've been waiting a long time to do this," Moran punches him on the face. His jaw hurts. But he's somehow used to it now and Moran's hit - though forceful and a good hit - is nothing compared to his father and mother. He crosses his arms at the thought of his parents. "Now." He hears Moran yell.

And that's when it started - again.

They threw him to the ground, kicked every part of his body. His back burning as they kick old wounds and bruises. They punch him multiple times on the stomach and the chest. He grunts, moans in pain quietly. He looks at his watch - nine o'clock.

He doesn't want this. He closes his eyes and breathe in as calmly as he can. John's rejection of him plus his current beating and the fact that he is two hours late from coming back home is over-whelming. His life is a disaster and he admits that much.

* * *

He limps out of the alley. Clutching his ribs. Their hits may not be as strong but there were many of them. He got quantity over quality. With his father, now that is some good quality torture.

He tries to walk back to his house. But it is painful.

And then he panics when a black car pulls over beside him. Not-Anthea comes out, "Mr. Holmes."

Seeing as he has no choice, he gets in the car. Much to his surprise, his brother is sitting beside him. "Take the longest way to the manor," Mycroft tells the driver,

He rolls his eyes. "So... what am I doing here?"

"I saw you needed help. I came right away," Mycroft answers.

"I don't need your help." He snaps.

"Sherlock, how long?" Mycroft asks. He raises his brow at Mycroft, "How long have those boys been beating you up like this?" Mycroft sighs deeply, closing his eyes as if in pain.

He never saw his brother like this before. He doesn't want to see his brother like this again.

"Not in a while," he answers.

"Don't lie."

"I'm not lying. We haven't interacted for a very long time."

Mycroft nods to himself and seeing as the conversation is over, he looks out of the window.

* * *

'_How could I not see this? I am going to be part of the British Government in a few years and look at me, not knowing my brother is being beaten up by his peers. I'm not a good brother. How could I be so blind? Am I blind? I am blind._'

He looks at his brother. Sherlock seems peaceful, looking out of the window as well. If it wasn't for the bruises and cuts and dirt, he'd say that nothing was wrong.

He has to protect Sherlock.

* * *

'_What Mycroft doesn't know will not hurt him._'

On the contrary to everyone's belief, he does care about his brother. But he will never admit that.

He has to protect Mycroft.

* * *

"Are there any more cuts and bruises I should be aware of?" Mycroft asks.

"Nope," he answers.

"You clutched your ribs. How many are broken?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Well you better understand what I mean. We're here."

Bart's Hospital.

* * *

"I don't need this Mycroft!" he yells at him in the car. He doesn't need this. He can clean his own wounds, for goodness' sake! What's the point of going in a hospital if you can fix your own wounds. He winces at his own words, '_Fix? I'm not broken._'

"Yes, you do, Sherlock," Mycroft answers. "Your state won't be grand in the eyes of our parents."

He agrees but he will never say that out loud. "I'm fine," he says irritatingly.

"And does the word 'fine' mean completely bruised and in pain?"

'_It seems that way in this world, probably._'

"No. Fine means fine. I am fine," he rolls his eyes at Mycroft.

"Get out of the car, or I'll have to force you."

"You're forcing me?"

"WILL force you if you don't get out."

"I'm not going out."

Mycroft gets his phone from his pockets. He looks at Mycroft in alarm. "Well, better tell your friend, Watson, that you spent one year in-"

"Fine. Fine. Fine. I'll go. Sheesh," he raises his hands in mocking defeat.

He gets out of the car and walks in the hospital with his brother.

* * *

'_One year. He's been gone one year. And he comes back spontaneously like some wizard._'

He admits that he misses the bastard but he's angry with him. How can he just leave his whole life like that? Without even something to tell them?

Although it probably was his fault. He yelled at him. And he doesn't remember what he said. That's the awful part.

'_What if I said something completely horrible at him and I don't remember it? What's the point of asking for forgiveness if you don't even remember what you're sorry for?_'

He looks at Mary beside him. Mary's his anchor now. Not Sherlock.

* * *

He sees Molly Hooper in the hospital.

"Hello," she greets him.

"Molly," he nods at her and proceeds to walk with his brother out of the hospital.

Molly tries to walk with them, "I just want to thank you... again... for finding Toby..."

"You're welcome, Molly Hooper," he gives a forced smile and walks out with is brother leaving Molly in the hospital.

"Okay..." Molly says to herself.

* * *

"The same Molly Hooper who-" Mycroft starts as the car drives off.

"Yes, the same Molly Hooper who." He answers, annoyed.

"She doesn't seem bothered with it," his brother tells him.

"Her parents work in a hospital, of course she isn't bothered with it."

"Well, I wouldn't have thought someone would still fancy you after witnessing you OD."

"Wrong place at the wrong time."

"You were helping her find the cat and then used at her back garden."

"Who cares?"

"I'm going to have a word with the parents."

"You sound like a teacher."

"Don't even compare me with such idiocy."

"Whatever you say, Professor Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft frowns and he is proud of himself for making his brother frown. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

* * *

'_I'll visit Sherlock tomorrow.'_

He thinks to himself. Good thing Sherlock's brother gave him the address of their house.

* * *

"COME HERE!" He hears his father.

"AT ONCE!" He hears his mother continue.

He walks to the sitting room with his head down.

"Would you mind explaining what happened?" Violet asks.

"And don't lie." Siger tells him.

"I-I got... I.." He stutters.

Violet comes up to him and slaps him with her left hand. He can really feel her ring. What a ring.

"Talk." She says with murder.

"I got beaten up," he mutters.

Violet slaps him again. "Say that again."

"I GOT BEATEN UP!" He yells.

Violet slaps him thrice. Hard. With each hand. "Don't yell at your own mother," she says quietly, as if she's talking to the Queen.

Violet and Siger look at each other and nod. Violet gestures Siger to go to him.

His face is in pain. There must be multiple hand prints on his face. Her slaps are as bad as his.

"What did I say about yelling in the house?" Siger asks him.

"That it breaks our vocal chords?" He answers. Siger slaps him, but a little less force than his mother. '_Odd._'

"Don't act all smart. We all know, you aren't. You pathetic idiot."

"I AM NOT AN IDIOT!" He yells.

His father puts his hands on his neck and tightens his grip. He slaps him, hard. The kind of slap he always does. Now he isn't pulling back. Violet stands beside Siger, yelling at him. Telling him what an idiot he is for not being good enough, for not seeing where he was going, for not outsmarting those idiots, for being pathetic, for ruining the family name. "You are no son of mine," she finishes.

"I really want to kill him, Violet," Siger says.

"You're not the only one with that wish, Siger," she answers.

He has tears in his eyes. Begging for everything to stop. He wants to tell them that he wishes that as well. He'd rather be killed now. He can't do this anymore. His parents hates him. Mycroft will hate him if he tells the truth. John hates him. Everyone and everything hates him.

He wants it to stop.

"Please..." he whispers, trying to remove Siger's hands on his neck.

"What was that?" Violet asks.

"Please..." he says louder.

"Please what?" The two looks at him with raised brows.

"Please kill me..." He closes his eyes as tears fall down from his eyes. He said it. He finally said it. He told them. He finally tells them what he wants.

Violet and Siger look at each other and laughs. '_Laughter. They laugh. They mock me with their laughter. I knew even killing me would be a dream._'

"We're not killing you. What if someone asks where you are? We can't lie full time. That would be a lot of work. They'll probably find out we killed you. We'd rather not go to jail, no matter how much we don't want you to exist," Violet tells him.

He closes his eyes in frustration. Siger is capable of breaking him through violence and a bit of words. Violet is capable of breaking him through words and a bit of violence. He can't do this. Tears fall from his eyes but he doesn't make a sound. Not anymore. He gives up.

He gives up.

Siger removes his grip and he continues doing his chores. Closing the door to the house. Going to the basement and sleeping in the closet there - Violet decided that he would spend a week sleeping there as punishment for getting beaten up.

He wants Mycroft to help him. But he knows that Mycroft thinks highly of his parents. It would break him. He doesn't want that for his brother. He'd rather have this than the alternative. He can deal with pain - he has gone through a lot of it. Surely a little more won't hurt.

He goes through his old habits.


	14. The Doorbell

This is it. He's going. He's finally going. He walks to Baker Street first. Who knows? Maybe Sherlock is with Mrs. Hudson again. He did tell him that he often goes to 221B to be with Mrs. Hudson. It makes John smile that Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock has a very mother-son relationship. Sherlock is really fond of her. And Mrs. Hudson is really fond of him... He will never forget when that drunk man almost killed Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock almost became a murderer himself... Almost... He got to knock some sense into Sherlock...

Sherlock...

It's been a very long time since he saw Sherlock return from his disappearance. He misses him, but he won't admit that - so British. He knocks on the door of 221B.

The door opens and Mrs. Hudson's surprise face greets him. "Mrs. Hudson," he greets.

"John? Come on in," she gestures for him to come in.

They go to her flat and she makes tea. Mrs. Hudson slams the cup on the table. He's surprised. He really got her mad, didn't he? She puts the sugar on the table.

She points at it, "Oh no, you don't take it, do you?"

"No."

"You forget a little thing like that."

"Yes..."

"You forget lots of little things, it seems."

Mrs. Hudson looks at him and he looks back. She gives him a very sad look and a pang of guilt courses through his body. "Listen..." he starts.

"I'm not your mother. I've no right to expect it..."

"No..."

"But just one phone call, John! Just one phone call would have done."

'_Is this how I sounded when I told this to Sherlock?_' "I know..."

"After all we went through!" Mrs. Hudson says, frustrated. A flash of memories goes through his eyes. Sherlock and him sitting near the fire at 221B, laughing about their adventures from running from gangs in alleys and thieves they witnessed with Mrs. Hudson giving them tea and smiling at them. Sherlock and him, sitting at the bench by the park, resting after a long time of running after a cab because Sherlock forgot his wallet. Mrs. Hudson scolding Sherlock for not eating his food. Mrs. Hudson telling Sherlock not to abuse the furniture. 221B... It's like his home.

"Yes. I am sorry," he tells her. She sits beside him.

"Look, I don't want to sound rude but why now? What suddenly changed your mind?"

"I just want to ask if you've seen Sherlock..."

"He hasn't been here since the last time you both came here..." she sighs sadly. "I miss him."

'_Does she even know that he disappeared for a year?_'

"Isn't he with you?"

"No... We haven't seen each other much."

"Oh dear, did you break up?" she starts to try and hug him.

He doesn't want to be rude so he lets her hug him. "Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and I were never a couple."

"Okay, sweetie," she says sadly.

"Mrs. Hudson," she puts his hands on her shoulder and looks at her. "How many times do I have to tell you? Sherlock was not my boyfriend."

She rubs her arms on his arms. "It's alright..."

"Mrs. Hudson! I. Am. Not. Gay."

* * *

"Hello?" he answers the phone.

"Hi," the familiar voice says.

He freezes and looks at his phone in disbelief. He sighs annoyingly. "Oh you bastard!"

"It's time to go back. You've been letting your grades slide, Graham." Sherlock says.

"Greg..." he answers.

"Greg," Sherlock corrects himself.

"I'd hug you but you're on the phone."

"Sentiment, Greg."

"Hey, I'm not ashamed that I miss you, Sherlock."

He doesn't hear anything for a few minutes.

"You still there?" he asks.

"Yeah yeah.. Yes," Sherlock answers distractingly.

"It's nice to hear from you, mate," he smiles. '_He's back! Wait till John hears this!_' He hears Sherlock chuckle. "What?"

"Nothing... Nothing... You doing well?"

'_Did Sherlock Holmes, THE Sherlock Holmes, actually asked me if I was doing well? Him? Really?_'

"Yes, I am... Now listen... It's about John and-" he hears Sherlock sigh. "It would be good for the both of you if you go to him right now."

"No. I'm not going to him."

"Oh come on, Sherlock."

"I don't see the point."

"He's your best friend."

"I don't know how any of this is your business."

Greg pauses. "Because you're both my friends so this is definitely my business."

Silence. '_He needed to hear it._'

"Earth to Sherlock?"

He hears Sherlock clear his throat. "Right... Okay... I have to go... Er... Okay then... Goodbye, Graham."

"It's Greg!" He answers, frustrated. He isn't exactly sure, but he thinks he heard Sherlock chuckle. '_The arsehole._' He chuckles as well.

"No, I really have to go."

"Right. Nice to hear from you, Sherlock."

"You too." Sherlock hangs up.

Greg looks at his phone as if it is a magical elf dancing on the palm of his hand. Sherlock sounded genuine. He's been with Sherlock for six years now. He can tell when he's sarcastic by now. And he knows he isn't sarcastic. It's either Sherlock actually turned human or something is really really wrong.

* * *

It was really good to hear Greg's voice. And yes, he remembers his name (though he keeps forgetting it before) and it just a personal inside joke of his to forget his name. Greg probably knows it himself. Greg isn't as stupid as he tells him.

But he's stunned.

'_Because you're both my friends so this is definitely my business._' One of the two sentences that keeps rewinding in his brain.

Greg considers him as his friend. He always thought that Greg only sees him as someone who can help him with his school work. Merely an asset or just another tool to get a good grade. Like an instrument used in the laboratory. Apparently, he's wrong. Greg thinks of him as a friend. Two people considers him as a friend. '_Wait. Miscalculation._' Greg is the only one who considers him a friend. John hates him.

He forgets it. That's when he hears the other sentence Greg said. '_Hey, I'm not ashamed that I miss you, Sherlock._'

Greg isn't ashamed to miss him. Someone misses him. Someone isn't ashamed of him. Someone isn't ashamed to miss him. And he's Sherlock!

Greg said his name. Greg barely says his name. He's always Holmes. He's always been Holmes. Just Holmes... or mate... or hey or something... Never Sherlock. Greg is the third person to say his name after a year.

But his name is said in a different way this time. The first person to say his name said it with a tone of disappointment, pity, annoyance, frustration and commandment. The second person to say his name said it with a tone of anger and just deep hatred. He doesn't even want to remember it. The first and only time he hears John say his name... and it's in anger and hatred. He already has enough of that with himself and John adds to his.

It would appear that no matter what he does, John's hatred for him gets to him no matter what. It eats him alive. Breaking him to pieces and then glues him up all over again so he'd be torn to pieces again and again and again.

* * *

He leaves Baker Street after a few more cups of tea and chatting with Mrs. Hudson. He frowns at the fact that Mrs. Hudson doesn't know where Sherlock is. Sherlock often goes to Baker Street - especially on weekends. And it's a Saturday!

So he takes out his phone and sees the Holmes brothers' address and hails a cab. He tells the cabbie the address and off they go.

He looks outside the cab. It's very lonely to go inside a cab without company. Not wanting the loneliness, he gets his phone and dials Mary's number. She picks up quickly.

"So, how did it go?" Her genuinely concerned voice in his ear.

"I haven't seen him yet."

"What? Then where have you been?"

"Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson. Tried to ask her, she didn't know."

He hears Mary sigh. "That doesn't sound good."

"No, it isn't. I'm going to the Holmeses."

"What?"

"To Sherlock's place."

"And where would that be?"

"I don't know the place but Mycroft gave me their address in case of emergency. That's when Sherlock was still missing."

"Emergency?"

"Probably in case I found Sherlock and he's all wounded or something."

"Ahhh... I see..." A pause. "Are you okay?"

"What kind of question is that? Yes, of course, I'm okay."

"Well, you _are_ seeing Sherlock days after he returned..."

"Right... Well, I'm more mentally prepared this time."

"Hey, I never got to know what you wanted to tell me, you know."

'_Shit, really? Well... Next time._' "I'll tell you next time."

"Oh no, John! Don't tell me you're pregnant!"

He laughs. "You and your funny mouth will be sorry next time we see each other."

"Is that a threat?"

"Maybe."

The cabbie cuts him off. "We're here."

"Okay," he tells the cabbie and goes back on the phone. "Right. I have to go. I'm here at..." He asks the cabbie with a look and the cabbie points at this goddamn humongous house. "... Holy shit."

"What?"

"This isn't a house. This is a motherfucking castle."

"What?"

"I'll tell you more later. I have to do this. Okay? Bye, Mary."

"Bye, John. Good luck."

"Thanks." He hangs up. He pays the cabbie.

He now stands in front of the gates of this damn palace. '_My god! Why hasn't Sherlock let him in his place before?_' Oh he'd love to hang out in that paradise.

* * *

Siger keeps pushing him. His legs are jelly. He can't walk normally. After that call with Greg, his mother found him on his phone and instantly thought he was asking for help. She slapped him twice and pushed him. Violet's push on him was strong, he didn't have time to think. He hit the the pillar with the back of his head and he got dizzy and he fell on the ground.

He heard shouting. Then someone kicking his legs and stomped on his leg once so hard that if he added a little more force on his stomp and Siger could have cut his Tibia in half. He limps and his father is growing tired of his slow walking. He keeps pushing him to move faster. Yelling at him. Threatening him and then doing what he was just threatening him with.

He hates this life.

* * *

He walks through this gigantic front garden. The grass looks amazing. He'd love to just lie on the grass and do nothing at all. He'd love to hang out here with Sherlock. Although he is a bit scared to meet Sherlock's parents. If they're anything like Sherlock and Mycroft, all deducing and stuff... He doesn't want to go through that again... Though Mycroft and Sherlock seem to be good people when you squint just a tiny bit.

They don't show it, but they are.

So their parents must be the same, right?

* * *

He composes himself, breathing heavily on the stairs. He just got thrown at the wall and kicked in the guts. But a few more second and he'll be fine.

* * *

He finally reaches this beautiful door. '_Why didn't Sherlock tell me he's rich?_'... '_Oh god, what if this is the wrong house?_'... '_Oh there it is. "Holmes Manor"..._' ... He hesitates. He's about to knock but his fist is still in mid-air, waiting to knock this door.

* * *

He's calm. But he's still in pain. But at least, he's calm.

* * *

He rings the doorbell.

* * *

He looks up at the door. Someone is ringing the doorbell.


	15. The Holmeses

'_Who on Earth is outside that door?_' His parents didn't inform him of - _RING_ - visitors. They always tell him when they do, so he'd know what to do in advance. Sometimes he'd have to make appearances since they are - _RING_ - aware of his existence, sometimes he has to pretend he doesn't exist (which is easier). What if it's the police? Oh god, did he get - _RING_ - caught with the drugs? What if it's Mycroft's men about to take - _RINGGG_ - him to rehab? _RINGGGGG..._

"GET THE DOOR!" Siger yells. _'I'm gonna get seriously beaten up tonight, am I?_'

His parents' staff has the month off. They told the staff that they want to 'bond' with him alone. But he knows that the staff knows about his situation. It's impossible not to hear some screaming and yelling at the same house, no matter how big it is. His parents paid and blackmailed the staff a bit to keep their mouths shut and ignore him under no circumstances. The staff agrees with this arrangement.

So, without the butler, he stands up and limps to the front door in front of him. He wraps one arm around his body, the other hand is on the wall. He prepares himself to pretend that nothing is wrong. He's used with that level of acting. He cannot feel his legs.

He holds the door handle and breathes in the pain, sucks it and absorbs all the pain in his body and prepares himself for the worst feeling of acting like everything is all fine. He opens the door, looking down.

He breathes and looks up at the unknown visitor.

_BLANK._

* * *

He waits for a while. Nothing. No one's responding. He rings the door bell again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. '_Brilliant._' He mutters to himself. He checks his phone. He's in the right address. He rings it again. '_Maybe no one's home?_' But the lights are open, he notices. '_God, I'm becoming like Sherlock._' He rings it again. The house is fucking gigantic. He already took a photograph of it when he was walking towards here, as he admired the place. The place is huge. Maybe no one can hear him. He rings it harder. He grows impatient.

He rings it in the most impatient way possible. He's about to give up and walk away when he hears someone shouting inside. He's uncertain if the person is shouting at him or someone else.

His thought stops when the door clicks open. A pause. Then a tired person who is looking down, is standing in front of him.

Those eyes reach him and looks at him in surprise.

* * *

'_John's here! He's here! Why are you here, John? Why?_' The sudden thought that perhaps John isn't finished beating him up comes. He winces. Beating him up? He isn't some victim...

He looks up. John is smiling. '_Probably the thought of strangling me excites him._' He gives John his most unemotional face. Which is hard to do because his legs are threatening to break underneath him.

"What are you doing here?" he asks with fake-sharpness and fake-annoyance.

"I... umm..." John clears his throat. "I came to see how you are."

His mind goes to his father and mother immediately and he should be peacefully collapsed right now on the floor if it wasn't for John's sudden appearance.

"I'm doing well," he rolls his eyes as he answers.

* * *

'_I don't believe a word you say._'

Sherlock looks exhausted, he can tell. Sherlock's very uncomfortable right now and he doesn't know what to do. He's never seen Sherlock like this before. He doesn't know how to help an uncomfortable-Sherlock. He can easily see right through Sherlock's unemotional mask better than before.

He sees Sherlock grip the door handle tightly. Too tightly. His knuckles are white.

"Are you okay?" he asks. '_You don't need to answer that, Sherlock. The bags under your eyes already tell the story._'

"Yes," Sherlock answers firmly.

He looks at Sherlock again. He's know gripping the door handle like a lifeline. He looks even more uncomfortable and his legs are trembling.

Before he asks Sherlock what's wrong, a woman cuts him off. "Sweetie, where are your manners? Let him in," her voice is sweet and kind. Sherlock's blocking the door so he cannot see what she looks like.

Sherlock sighs, "Right." He opens the door wider and gestures for John to enter.

"Thank you." He tells Sherlock - who nods at him in reply. He shrugs his coat off and Sherlock gets it from him harshly as if he is a man on a mission. He hangs it on the coat rack. He observes Sherlock. He can see how horribly stiff Sherlock is with his movements.

"Sitting room. First door on the left," Sherlock suddenly says out-loud, Sherlock's back still facing him. He doesn't want to see him still struggling on putting his coat on the coat rack. He wants to help him. But he knows Sherlock's ego and he would want to do this alone.

He turns around to go to the sitting room.

'_Holy fuck._' The corridor looks like it's been taken from Buckingham Palace. He takes a photo of it. '_Geez._' He feels like he is a tourist going around in a museum.

He enters the sitting room. There's a fireplace on his left with two armchairs on the side and a couch facing the fireplace. There's only one painting in the whole room. It's big and it's on the wall to his right. He walks over to it, suddenly feeling fascinated with it.

'_My god!_' There is a painting of some beautiful view. It's beautiful and it must have cost a fortune! He looks at the artist's signature.

"Violet Holmes," he whispers to himself.

"Hello, dearie," a woman behind him says. He yelps in surprise. She's the same woman she heard earlier who told Sherlock what to do. He looks at her and she's placing a tray on the table - tea and biscuits. Her dark-brown hair with perfect curls flowing down her shoulders.

She looks at him and smiles. He's more intrigued with her eyes. They're exactly the same as Sherlock's. "Yes, hello. John Watson," he extends his arm for her to shake his hand.

"A pleasure. I apologise for the behaviour of my son. Violet Holmes," Mrs. Holmes shakes his hand.

'_This woman is Sherlock's mother?! But she looks like she's in her thirties!_' He smiles back at her. He looks at the painting agian. '_Violet Holmes? She painted this son of a bitch called a painting?_'_  
_

"Your work, Mrs. Holmes?" he asks her.

"Indeed it is," Mrs. Holmes sits beside him. "It's the view outside of my old hours. So many memories."

"Wow," He says, dumbly. '_She may not be a Holmes by blood, but she's definitely a Holmes._'

Mrs. Holmes's head suddenly snaps around, which got him alarmed. He turns around as well, looking at the direction Mrs. Holmes is looking at. Sherlock's in the room, leaning on the door way, hands in his pockets. "I knew I heard your footsteps," Mrs. Holmes tells Sherlock.

'_Bloody hell! I didn't even hear anything!_'

Mrs. Holmes walks towards Sherlock and whispers in his ear. Sherlock suddenly stands up straight. He sees Sherlock nodding. "Okay... Okay... Yes... Alright, mummy..." Sherlock mutters. He chuckles to himself at the sight of Sherlock and Mrs. Holmes.

Mrs. Holmes smiles at Sherlock, pats his head and kisses his forehead. "I'm going to get Sherlock's father so he'd meet you, John Watson. Is that alright?"

"Yes, thank you for the tea," He gives his best smile at Mrs. Holmes. She leaves.

He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock seems like he's frozen on the spot. And he looks like he just experienced something horrible.

He chuckles, '_Probably embarrassed that I witnessed him being a momma's boy._'

* * *

He enters the room. John and his mother are both standing in front of his mother's painting. John looks incredibly impressed. He smiles to himself. John is really fascinated with his mother's painting. I guess he could give his mother some credit. He leans on the door way, his legs still not functioning properly. Violet turns sharply and looks at him, John following her gaze.

"I knew I heard your footsteps," she tells him.

John looks at his mother with a very confused look.

He tries to look as indifferent and bored despite the pain he is feeling in his body. Violet walks up to him and she gives him a look that screams, "Good posture, you no good son of mine. You're embarrassing me with your posture." He stands up straight and he sees Violet nod at him - a nod invisible to non-Holmeses.

She whispers to his ear. "Now, don't embarrass this family or I will slap the living daylights out of you."

"Okay..."

"Don't you even dare ask him for help because otherwise, I might have to kill you myself."

"Okay..."

"I don't want a single drop of tea spilled. Now, I want you to say 'Yes' in a very affectionate manner from a son to a mother."

"Yes..." He says it in the way his mother told him to.

"Don't forget to call Siger your 'Dad' if he ever comes in this room. Now, call me 'Mummy' and smile like you're tired of listening to my concern but you're grateful I still do it."

"Alright, mummy," he sighs annoyingly and then smiles in the most affectionate way - the kind his mother won't see but John will.

"Did you do it?" Violet threatens him. He hums quietly.

Violet looks at him, pats his head and kisses him on the forehead. His mind is broken. He feels like someone just broke his dignity. She went too far. How dare her kiss him on the forehead? Doing a very motherly act at him which she always does to Mycroft and never him. How dare her do something he always wanted her to do ever since he was little? How dare her do this as an act and just to keep appearances. How dare her? Hitting him and slapping him is different with hollow motherly-kisses. The kiss on the forehead felt so real and so motherly and how everything he thought it would feel. But she's doing this to keep an act! It's disgusting!

"Momma's boy, you are," John snaps him out of his thoughts. They're alone now. He didn't even feel her leave. John is sitting on the couch.

"Oh you have no idea," he answers and John laughs. '_This is a good start. He's laughing._' He missed hearing that laugh. He sits down beside John.

"Nice place you have."

'_I wouldn't call it "Nice"._'

"It's okay," he shrugs.

"Okay?!" John scoffs. "This is motherfucking paradise."

Sherlock chuckles internally. '_Silly John._'

"Language, John."

"And your mother's a goddamn Da Vinci with her paintings."

"That she is..." He admits.

"What about your father?" John asks.

"Upstairs."

"Actually, I'm right here." Siger waves at them.

'_Oh fuck._'

* * *

"Actually, I'm right here." A man who looks like Sherlock comes in. He and Sherlock both stand up in his sudden presence.

'_This is Sherlock's father? He looks like he's also in his thirties! The fuck is this family breaking the laws of getting old._'

"So how are you boys doing?" Mr. Holmes walks up to him and reaches for his hand. "Siger Holmes."

"Umm, John Watson, yes. Hi," he shakes Mr. Holmes's hand.

Mr. Holmes gives him a smile that looks extremely like Sherlock's. "Pleasure to meet you future-Doctor Watson," Siger grins at him, nodding in approval.

"Dad, stop deducing, John," Sherlock suddenly says. Siger looks at Sherlock and laughs, Sherlock chuckling with him.

'_Sherlock's family ARE good people._'

The telephone suddenly rings. Sherlock gets it immediately. "Yes?" Sherlock listens for a while. "Dad, it's for you."

"Thanks m'boy," Sherlock gives him the phone and sits on the couch. He sits beside Sherlock. The two watches Mr. Holmes.

"Let's now watch the magic unfold," Sherlock whispers to him. He looks at Sherlock, confused. '_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_' But Sherlock's eyes are fixed on his father and so he watches.

"What is it?" Siger asks on the phone, harshly.

'_Whoa. Mr. Holmes's kind eyes are gone._'

"No. Cancel it... It's not as important as it sounds, Carter... No... It's none of your business, Carter. It's mine and I'm telling you to cancel that meeting... I don't care how important he is, I do not want to speak to him with that attitude of his... Do it or you're fired," Mr. Holmes hangs up. Mr. Holmes looks at them with the I-am-in-love-with-my-family-and-no-one-can-tell-me-otherwise eyes unlike the I-am-the-boss-and-I-will-kill-you-if-you-mess-with-me eyes. "Sorry boys," he tells them.

"It's fine, dad. Now, may you please leave. I'd like to talk to John Watson. Please?" The two Holmeses stare at each other. He starts to feel awkward between the two. He's like a little kid who is in between two adults having an argument. "Please, dad?... Please..."

'_What the fuck?_' He's in shock. Sherlock just begged, thrice. He remembers Sherlock's old words a year ago. "I'd rather kill myself before I beg for mercy." And no here he is. Breaking his own words. '_Maybe it's just an act for his parents. Pretending to be the good kid._' That does make sense. '_The Holmeses are one hell of a family._'

Mr. Holmes nods and leaves.

They're alone.

* * *

AN: Okay. I don't know if you guys ever noticed but I right POVs in a way that it's kind of like a character's POV without using the word "I" or "me." You'd know whose character's POV it is anyway. The big clue is that I don't say the character's name in the not-dialogue parts. I always use a pronoun.


	16. Unwanted Emotions

Sherlock sighs beside him. The both of them stands up, Sherlock decides to look in front of the window. He looks around the room. '_Sherlock's parents... Who would've thought?_' His parents. Then a thought comes across his mind. "Did they know too?" He suddenly asks.

Sherlock hums in question. He notices how Sherlock suddenly becomes interested in the window's curtains.

"That you spent one year playing hide and seek."

"...Maybe..."

"So THAT's why they didn't report you missing!"

"Sorry! Sorry again!" Sherlock half-yells, flailing his arms. He turns around in anger. "Sorry," he hears Sherlock say behind him. He's never heard that tone of Sherlock's before. He looks at Sherlock for a second. He's still not ready to forgive him for not telling him. For abandoning him. He wants to change the subject.

He cannot think of anything except for Sherlock's parents. Sherlock has his mother's eyes and the face of his father.

"So, Potter..." he tells Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at him with a very confused look. "What?" Sherlock tilts his head.

He laughs at his own joke. "Hey, Harry... You have your mother's eyes..." He gasps for air as he laughs at the confused look on Sherlock's face.

"I-I don't... I'm not Harry! That's your sister!" Sherlock says with confusion.

He is holding his stomach tightly. He cannot breathe. '_Nice way of talking to Sherlock after a year._'

* * *

He doesn't know what's wrong with John. First John calls him "Potter" and then John's laughing like a hyena on the couch. Is he sick or what? John even calls him "Harry"! Is he getting him confused with his sister? Oh no. That's not good. He walks up to John and sits in front of him. So now he's sitting on the table.

"John?"

"Yes, chosen one?" John chuckles.

"What's wrong?"

* * *

"What's wrong?" He sees the genuine concern on Sherlock's face and his laughter stops in an instant. He isn't surprised Sherlock does not know who Harry Potter is but... to see him be concerned for him because of something, that sobers him up.

"Nothing... Nothing..." He answers.

"So... Are you confusing me with your sister?"

He is about to laugh again but the look on Sherlock's face stops him. "No. It's a reference. There's a book series called Harry Potter and the character has the face of his father and the eyes of his mother. Kind of like you."

Sherlock seems to get the point already and says, "Oh." and chuckles. "Well, it's a reference but I don't understand why you're laughing like that."

He thinks about what Sherlock just said. It makes sense. It isn't as funny as it really is. He guesses that he's been so stressed lately that a little teensy tiny joke made him laugh like a hyena since he hasn't laughed - with real laughter - in a long time.

"I don't know what came over me," he shrugs and Sherlock nods.

Sherlock stands up from the table and so does he. He notices how very gentle and slow Sherlock is being with his movements. He doesn't understand. Sherlock doesn't care about how to handle with furniture or other stuff. Why is he being cautious with this? '_Probably wants to impress his parents._'

He chuckles. "What?" Sherlock asks, looking at him, unbuttoning his suit jacket, about to sit down. '_Well-mannered son of a bitch_.'

"Nothing. You're just an attention-seeking baby," he answers.

"Oh they give me attention all right," Sherlock laughs, sitting down on the arm chair which is probably his favourite. He sits on the arm chair in front of Sherlock. The two laughs.

He feels the familiar warmth like he always had when they were in Baker Street, before Sherlock left and lied to him for a year.

Silence.

"So..." Sherlock starts.

"So...?" He asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Why are you here?"

'_Oh. Right._' He thinks to himself. Why did he come to Sherlock's after a long time of not seeing him? He doesn't have a reason. "I don't know," he answers honestly.

"Then what's the point of you coming here?" Sherlock asks, sighing annoyingly. It's like Sherlock thinks he is a bother.

"I don't know."

"Well, that is one swell of a point," Sherlock says sarcastically with a sarcastic smile and a sarcastic wave of his hand. He just want to tackle him to the ground again. Sherlock is testing him and he might even fail.

"Look. I don't know why I am here, alright? I just am." He shrugs.

"Right," Sherlock nods angrily. '_Is that even possible?_' Sherlock is looking at his own hand on the arm of his chair, tapping on the soft arm. Clearly annoyed with him.

"Look, if you don't want me here-" he stands up.

"Don't," Sherlock half-yells, pointing at him but Sherlock's eyes are still stuck on the arm of the chair. "Just don't," now he's looking at the ground, closed his eyes, opened them again and sighs. Sherlock points at the chair he was sitting on, "Sit." Sherlock says firmly.

"Are you ordering me to sit?" He snaps. Sherlock's hands now rest on the arms of his chair, those eyes still stuck on the floor.

"I'm asking you to sit," Sherlock tells him.

"No."

"Are you not going to ask why I rudely shooed my father to talk to you?" Sherlock tells him.

He cannot answer that. He didn't even notice that. He thought Sherlock shooed Mr. Holmes because Mr. Holmes is being an embarassing dad a son wants to hide from his friends. Apparently not. Sherlock shooed his father to talk to him. He isn't aware that he's been staring at Sherlock until he tries to answer Sherlock's question.

He clears his throat, "Fine. I will, then," he shrugs and sits down on the chair as if he is being forced to be seated. He doesn't want Sherlock to know how curious and drawn he is to him. Why must he have a man's ego?

Sherlock sighs. "Well, I never had time to explain myself to you."

'_Probably because you did say that I'd bother you._' "Ahuh," he lets Sherlock continue.

"I didn't contact you when I left because... because..." Sherlock looks like he is thinking of something to say.

"Because...?" '_Please don't lie. Please don't lie. Please don't lie._'

"Because..." Sherlock's eyes widen. "Because I didn't want to be found."

He looks at Sherlock curiously. '_THAT, I was not expecting._' "Didn't want to be found?"

"That's what I said, yes."

"Why didn't you want to be found?"

Sherlock sighs. Sherlock's been doing that a lot lately. Sighing. "Because I had to die."

He looks at Sherlock with a confused, alarmed, what-the-fuck-did-he-say look. "What?!"

"I have more enemies than I usually had and I had to step back into the shadows."

"Enemies? Who? Your bullies? That's not a reasonable excuse to disappear!" He snaps. Sherlock just stares at him, not moving. Just like the time before the disappearance. He stops the thought from continuing in his head. Sherlock's eyes aren't even blinking.

* * *

"Enemies? Who? Your bullies? That's not a reasonable excuse to disappear!" John snaps at him. He stares at John, not moving. There's the word. Bullies. He tries to remember the meaning of the word. He searched for that when he was younger.

Bully (n.)  
Plural: Bullies  
1. A person who uses strength or power to harm or intimidate those who are weaker.

No. He isn't being bullied. He doesn't have bullies. Because he isn't weak. He knows he could be stronger than any of those... those... sadists. They're probably sadists, yes. Not in the sexual way though, thank god. No, they're sadists in a way that they like to see him get hurt. Only him. That's what he'd call them. Sadists. Not bullies. He refuses to believe he is weak. '_But that's what you are, right?_' He removes the voice in his head. Worst of all, it's John's voice. He removes it.

'_Removing John's voice? Shows how weak you are,_' his own voice says and he grunts in frustration. '_Shut up. Keep quiet. __You're weak, Sherlock. I am your voice and I tell you that you are weak. NO SHUT UP! I am just telling you the truth. BE QUIET. And yet you stay._'

"-you are? You didn't even bother to give me a note at least." John's voice snaps him out from the battle he has with himself.

"No, I didn't."

"Oh so you're talking decently now? Alright," John claps his hand in a sarcastic manner. '_Why is John suddenly THIS angry?_' "Let's hear it. Why didn't you give me a simple text to - Oh I don't know - tell me you're okay? Hmm? Let's start with that."

'_Because I was too high to talk to you._' "Because I had to."

"The bloody hell are you talking about?"

"People are watching me, John."

"People of high positions are watching a teenage-boy? Yes, that's _really true. _You know what? I don't care anymore. I don't care why you had to leave. I want to know why you never told me. Why, Sherlock? Pray, tell."

He sighs. "Because I don't want to be found."

"So why won't you just tell me that with a text or a note?"

"Because you'd try to find me."

John looks at him the same way at the time he went to the restaurant and surprised the bejesus out of John.

"And why on Earth would you think I'd even try to find you?"

He looks at John. That stings. But he doesn't show it. He tries to look at this encounter with John in a very calm manner. Should he try to switch on the Machine-Button? Because it would stop him from leaving the room and smashing everything in his path. The worst part is that he knows the answer to his question. '_Because I would use everything in my power to find you._' He thought John would think the same. Apparently not.

"Your morality and the fact that we have seen each other for almost a year: That would make you think of the right thing to do. You've met me and have been my companion for a long time. I disappear, I give you a mysterious note. You'd do your best to get to the bottom of this."

"Huh," John just sighs, leaning on the back of the arm chair John is sitting on and looks at him with an angry look in his eyes. Others might think it's just a simple normal look. But he is certain, he is very certain, that those are eyes of a person who would murder him if looks could kill. "So you're a narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine. Is that it?" John tells him.

He's been stabbed a lot of times. He's body felt burns a lot of times. He's been thrown, almost drowned, an inch to death, punched, kicked, choked, hit and such a lot of times. But nothing hurts more than this. He sighs, he's starting to feel dizzy with unwanted emotions. He hates unwanted emotions. He did not ask for them. "John," he whispers.

* * *

He's still staring at him. '_Sherlock, did you just fucking go to your Mind Palace while we're in conversation?!_' He looks at Sherlock. He isn't moving.

"This is exactly why I am annoyed with you, you know? You're there sitting while we're having a conversation. You probably won't even hear me so just sit there and I'll tell you what I think. I came here to see you because I thought I was ready to forgive you and I wanted to see if you're okay. You are still lying to me, Sherlock. I know you're not okay! I can see you well. And you know what I thin-"

"Shut up. Keep quiet," Sherlock suddenly mutters. His eyes still stuck on him.

"How dare you shut me up? So you _have_ been listening, huh? I'm finally telling you things I want you to hear so you'd know what to do and you're telling me to shut up and keep quiet. You're a bloody idiot! You suddenly leave the world like it's nothing. You're careless, then. You don't think properly! You probably didn't even care about how we'd feel when we find out that y-"

"NO SHUT UP!"

"Fuck you, Sherlock! Don't yell at me you shit! I'm not even saying my worst! I will kill you and I-"

"BE QUIET!"

"Sherlock, you're a fucking machine. Who do you even think you are? You didn't even bother to give me a note at least."

"No, I didn't," Sherlock whispers at him.

"Oh so you're talking decently now? Alright," he claps his hand in a sarcastic manner. '_You arsehole!_' "Let's hear it. Why didn't you give me a simple text to - Oh I don't know - tell me you're okay? Hmm? Let's start with that."

"Because I had to," Sherlock shrugs at him

"The bloody hell are you talking about?" He grows frustrated.

"People are watching me, John," Sherlock tells him.

"People of high positions are watching a teenage-boy? Yes, that's _really true. _You know what? I don't care anymore. I don't care why you had to leave. I want to know why you never told me. Why, Sherlock? Pray, tell."

Sherlock sighs. Sherlock looks annoyed. "Because I don't want to be found."

"So why won't you just tell me that with a text or a note?"

"Because you'd try to find me."

'_Oh-ho-ho. Now that's a motherfucking nice answer! The world doesn't bloody revolve around you, Sherlock. You think that if you disappeared that I'd find you like a dog trying to find its master? Is that what I am to you? A fucking dog?_' he looks at Sherlock and he is just bloody angry at him. Sherlock swallows but then looks bored.

"And why on Earth would you think I'd even try to find you?" He says through gritted teeth. '_Calm down, Watson. Calm down. Don't kill him yet._'

Sherlock tilts his head at him, looks at the ground, raises his head a little, breathes in and looks at him. "Your morality and the fact that we have seen each other for almost a year: That would make you think of the right thing to do. You've met me and have been my companion for a long time. I disappear, I give you a mysterious note. You'd do your best to get to the bottom of this."

"Huh," he just sighs, leaning on the back of the arm chair he is sitting on and looks at Sherlock. '_So you're blaming me now? AND COMPANION?! I'M JUST A MOTHERFUCKING COMPANION TO YOU?! So after all this time I've been trying to be your friend, I'm just a bloody companion! I knew you treat me like a fucking dog._' "So you're a narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine. Is that it?" he tells Sherlock.

He looks at Sherlock and Sherlock looks like someone shot a gun at him, "John," he whispers.


	17. Machine - Human

He gets angrier at Sherlock. The look Sherlock gave him just makes him angrier. He stands up and goes behind the arm chair he was sitting on. He leans on the arm chair to be the "bigger guy" as he looks down on Sherlock. Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the seat. Hands together, elbows resting on both knees, head down.

"John I-"

"What?" He snaps at Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at him with cold eyes. "It would seem your words are getting less creative as time moves forward. Been spending an awful amount of time with idiots, are you?" Sherlock leans back to the back of the chair, doing the deduction position. '_He's going to be insufferable._'

"Don't fucking deduce me, Sherlock," he glares at him.

"I never knew it wasn't allowed."

"I don't like it. So. Don't. Do. It." He says through gritted teeth. Sherlock looks at him with confused eyes, tilting his head in the progress. It's like Sherlock is looking at him like he is some alien from outer space. Something weird. "Don't look at me like that! You know what, Sherlock. I'm done. I'm done with this," he sighs. He gives up, "I can't go on like this. You are being difficult and I just want to wrap my hands around your neck and squueze the life out of you."

"I doubt you can do that. Given your good morals, like I said, it woul-"

"SHUT UP! I don't want to hear you deduce any further! Deduce my arse, Sherlock!" He yells at him. "They're right! They've all been right! Everyone says you're like this!" He gestures at Sherlock. "Everyone tells me I should stay away from you! I didn't because I thought you were not what they say! They all say you're the freak! And I didn't believe them! Now I think they're right! The world doesn't fucking revolve around you, Sherlock! It revolves around the fucking sun!" He yells.

The look Sherlock gave him made Sherlock look like a bullet passed the stomach. Now, Sherlock looks dead. Broken. Shattered. Destroyed. He could see a dark cloud hovering over Sherlock.

* * *

John is still looking at him. He needs to tell him that he matters. That he is the one he matters the most. Not himself. Never himself.

"John I-"

"What?" John snaps at him. '_I can't do this anymore. I'll only cause you more pain, John._'

He tries to look at John without emotions, which is very very hard - considering the physical pain he is feeling in his body, the mental pain he is feeling at the thought that he will be beaten up again after John leaves. The emotional pain that John hates him. John hates him.

"It would seem your words are getting less creative as time moves forward. Been spending an awful amount of time with idiots, are you?" He leans at the back of the arm chair and pretends that he is deducing John.

"Don't fucking deduce me, Sherlock," John spits at him, looking at him like he is in a weaker spot. Which he is.

"I never knew it wasn't allowed," he tries to sass John. John hates him getting all sassy.

"I don't like it. So. Don't. Do. It." John says, extremely angry. He looks at him, confused. '_How do I do this to you? What do I do to stop you from hating me so much? I'm confused. What do I do to stop you from getting hurt?_' "Don't look at me like that! You know what, Sherlock. I'm done. I'm done with this," John sighs. "I can't go on like this. You are being difficult and I just want to wrap my hands around your neck and squueze the life out of you."

His heart breaks at John's words. '_Shut up, you don't even have a heart. I know. Good, you're cooperating. Shut up, mind-palace. I am in your mind, you shut me up. Fine._' He changes his thoughts and thinks of a way to push John away from him. It won't do any of them any good. "I doubt you can do that. Given your good morals, like I said, it woul-"

"SHUT UP! I don't want to hear you deduce any further! Deduce my arse, Sherlock!" John yells at him. "They're right! They've all been right! Everyone says you're like this!" He gestures at Sherlock. "Everyone tells me I should stay away from you! I didn't because I thought you were not what they say! They all say you're the freak! And I didn't believe them! Now I think they're right! The world doesn't fucking revolve around you, Sherlock! It revolves around the fucking sun!" John yells.

He dies. He just dies. Not in the literal sense, no. But his metaphorical heart scatters like dust. He heard John tell him this already. The last time he saw John before he disappeared, these were John's words. These words are the same. And it kills him. His mind plays a trick on him and it suddenly remembers the very words John told him before.

"_You know what? I'll just leave you alone since you don't even care and you won't even tell me what's bugging you from the start. Don't you trust me? You probably don't. All you care about is yourself. Well, then that's good, right? Is that good? Should I leave you with your heartless lonely self now? Because I'm offering you my friendship but you won't give me yours. You insult me in many ways and you have been basically making my girlfriends scream away when you talk to them. You laugh at my family but we're happy! It's none of your business if they drink! Maybe you are as weird as people say you are. Like the freak everyone thinks you are. Because I trust you enough to endanger my life because of your 'massive intellect' and I suppose I shouldn't have a problem with that right? But no. You don't trust me. Well then. Goodbye, Sherlock._"

John's earlier words, echoes in his brain as well.

"_So you're a narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine. Is that it?_"

He closes his eyes, tears swell his eyes. He doesn't want John to see them so he keeps his eyes closed. So he breathes and when he's sure he is well-composed, he opens his eyes again and looks at John.

* * *

He regrets it. He regrets it completely. The look on Sherlock's face doesn't anger him anymore. It sobers him up from the anger he's been feeling for the past days or weeks. Sherlock looks so dead. So unemotional. Cold. He tries to compare the level Sherlock is feeling to the level an ordinary teenager would feel. An ordinary teenager - no - adult, even, would probably be yelling, screaming, gross sobbing. But here Sherlock is, looking at him with very dry intense eyes.

"Sherlock, I-" he starts, sitting on the armchair in front of Sherlock again.

"Yes, I am."

Sherlock's sudden voice startles him. He grows confused. "You're what?" He whispers.

"The narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine, obviously," Sherlock says, looking at him like it is the most obvious answer in the world. '_Did I really tell him that?_' "Although I'd scratch the machine part." '_Is he finally saying that he's human as well?_' "Since I am not programmed, do not run from oil or batteries or any form of electricity, that would mean that I'm-" '_Please say you're human. Please say you're human._' "-biologically and anatomically human."

'_Not good enough._' "Look, Sherlock, I didn't mean t-"

"Humans have the tendency to tell what they really think of a person when they're angry. You didn't mean to say it out loud, but you meant it." Sherlock shrugs, chuckling, "Fascinating, humans are. They're so... human." Sherlock chuckles.

'_Christ, Sherlock!_' "Sherlock. Stop this now," he says threateningly.

"Stop what? I wasn't aware I've been doing something else other than talking to you... Oh... Is that what you want me to do, then? Stop talking? Okay. You should know what I am used to not-talking for days on end... I don't know if that bothers you... But anyway, this wouldn't be a probl-"

"Talk to me."

"I thought you don't want me to talk?"

"Just... Talk to me," he's getting frustrated and just... helpless.

"I _am_ talking to you."

"No. _Really REALLY_ talk to me."

"I don't understand."

'_Dammit, Sherlock._' He shifts uncomfortably on his chair.

"Sh-"

"Sweetie," Mrs. Holmes knocks on the door to the sitting room, looking at Sherlock. "I need to speak with you. It's urgent." She nods once and off she goes. Sherlock sighs, closes his eyes and stands up, buttoning his suit jacket.

"It appears that I am needed."

Before he answers, Sherlock leaves the room.

* * *

He tries hard not to show how painful and weak his body is. He keeps on not-limping. His leg is still a mess. As he closes the door behind him, he looks up to see his mother, looking at him from the Library Room, five doors down. Violet gives him a glare and points at the Library and points at the floor which means, "_Come here, now,_" in parents' body-language.

When his mother gets in the Library, he finally lets himself fall on the ground. The carpeted floor softens the sound of his fall. He crawls. But then he remembers John being in the same house. He can't let John see him like this. He must look pathetic. He raises his upper body with his elbows. He really doesn't want John to see him like this. He uses the wall to stand himself up and limps and stumbles across the hallway. It feels like hours when he reach the door to the Library. He holds the knob to the door and hesitates to open the door. He wonders what "lecture" he will get once inside. He breathes to calm himself down. To look "presentable" to Violet.

He opens the door. "Where have you been?" Violet harshly whispers as he closes the door behind him.

"Outside your door," Violet slaps him on the back of his head.

"Don't you dare act all smart around me, child," He mentally rolls his eyes. "Now, what have you been saying to our guest, John Wilson?"

"Watson," he quickly says.

"Doesn't matter," Violet slaps him on the back of his head again. "He's been yelling and what have you been shouting back? What have I told you about shouting at other people? Manners, child! You need them! The poor boy will find out how severely delusional you are. I don't want to be known as a freak's mother. Keep yourself hidden and discipline yourself. You thank god that your father had to leave early. But that doesn't mean he won't know what just occurred here. Your punishment will be given later."

"Okay then. Can I go now?" Violet slaps the bejesus out of him. So hard, the slap echoes in the room.

"Manners," Violet points at him. He rubs his left cheek. '_Thank goodness she used her right hand._' His mother's ring has a gigantic diamond on it. "I'll go back to the sitting room and pretend to get the tray from you when I check up on you two... Now, leave."

He turns around to open the door. As he opens the door, his legs shake so hard he falls on the floor as the door swings open. He makes another awful long-time journey from the Library to the sitting room.

* * *

What can he tell Sherlock? Sherlock just left the room because of his mother. He quickly whips up his phone. He calls. Waiting for the one he's calling to pick up. He paces around the room.

"Greg Lestrade."

"Greg! It's me!"

"Hey J-"

"I'm at Sherlock's and I'm trying to tell him why everything's gone wrong but it's not working. He's being difficult."

"Sherlock's always difficult, John. That bastard's an annoying dick."

"Got that right."

"I can't help you. Your... situation... is too complicated for me to handle. Sorry, John."

"It's fine. But you should know him, right?"

"I've been with Sherlock for six years. Trust me, I still don't know who he is."

"Then why do you put up with him?" He asks as he opens the door to the sitting room to find Sherlock holding the knob to the door, five doors down, and just staring at the doorknob for ages. Sherlock gets in and so he closes the door to the sitting room and sits on his chair again.

"Because I'm desperate for grades, that's why..." A pause. "... And you know? Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one. See you later, okay?"

"Sure."

"Sure you're alright, mate?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Right."

He hangs up and waits for Sherlock. Greg's words echoes in his mind. He feels guilty. Sherlock is a great man and he treats him like shit. He sips his tea and waits. He promises to himself that he will tell Sherlock what he really thinks. His phone rings. Mary.

"Hi, Mary."

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"Just my thoughts."

"So how did it go?"

"It's still going."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. I'm feeling guilty, Mary."

"Why?"

"I've been shouting at him and I never even got the chance to hear him actually explain himself. But when he does, he insults me and tries my patience."

"John, don't you think he's doing those things on purpose?"

"Probably. Why? Should I punch him for doing that?"

"No. That means he's probably trying to push you away."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he cares."

"Sherlock? Cares? Those are words that never fit in the same sentence."

"And he knows that you think of him that way."

"In what way?"

"That he doesn't care. And he's using that for your own sake."

"So driving me mad means he cares? How the hell does that work, Mary?"

"He's probably hurt."

"He seems fine."

"Seems, John. SEEMS fine. That doesn't mean he is."

"But Sher-"

"Do you even know what happened to him in the year of his disappearance?"

"He investigated some crimes, went around places, having fun without me, leaving me in grief."

"So... He didn't use details, then?"

"What do you mean?"

"It means, he's keeping a secret. Come on, John! Open those bloody eyes of yours and see! I may not have known Sherlock that long but I know he once told us that only lies have details. He never said details because he doesn't want to lie. And what is it that he doesn't want to lie about? A secret."

"You sound like Sherlock."

"I know. And I deduce that you are acting like bitchy arseholes and therefore I conclude that you two should sort the bloody hell out of this."

"But-"

"No. Sort this out. Because you two are behaving like idiots. Yes, I said it. You're both idiots."

"You're the best."

"I know." He hangs up. He waits for a few more seconds and one minute later, Sherlock comes in and this time, he actually tries to look at Sherlock.

This time, he does what he did the first time he heard of Sherlock. He observes him.


	18. He Notices

"Anything wrong?" He asks Sherlock as Sherlock sits on the armchair in front of him.

"Nothing I couldn't handle," Sherlock shrugs.

He sees something different this time. Gone was the rude obnoxious arsehole Sherlock he saw ten minutes ago. He sees a teenager whose eyes are older than his father's. Bags under those old eyes. Pale skin - paler than before. Tighter skin. Sickly colour. Even Sherlock's posture changed. Sherlock looks exhausted. Sherlock looks tired. This is the Sherlock he saw that opened this house's front door earlier today before Sherlock the arrogant came.

Everything is clearer.

Sherlock is pretending to be okay. And for the life of him, he doesn't know why. He calms himself. He doesn't want to get angry. "_Anger dulls one's judgment_," Sherlock told him some time ago.

He hates the fact that Sherlock is right. As always. But right now, he focuses on his friend right in front of him. He just notices now (now that he subtracted anger) how Sherlock tries to avoid his gaze. Sherlock really looks worn out. And he feels guilty about everything he did to Sherlock.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

"Jo-"

"And _please... PLEASE _don't lie to me."

"I am okay." Sherlock answers with soft eyes.

"You're not."

"John-"

"I have a proposition, Sherlock."

"A proposition?"

"Yes, and I want you to say yes."

"Why would I do so?"

"Say yes, I stay. Say no, I leave forever."

"Yes," Sherlock answers instantly and... '_Desperately? No. Impossible... Open your eyes John. He doesn't want you to leave... But this is Sherlock... Exactly._'

"We tell each other the truth and nothing but the truth for twenty-four hours." He tells Sherlock.

"Been in a courtroom lately?"

"I just watch a lot of shows about lawyers. So, do we have a deal?"

"I already said yes anyway, so..." Sherlock shrugs.

"Alright. So may I start with... Are you okay?"

* * *

'_Why must that be the first question in the deal?_' he thinks as he looks at John.

* * *

Sherlock looks hesitant. He is surprised to see Sherlock struggle with an answer. He already knows what Sherlock will answer. A person who is really okay won't take this long to answer such a little question.

He hears Sherlock sigh, "No."

He did not expect Sherlock to actually tell the truth. "Why?"

"Because I am not okay. I won't elaborate further without questions, John. I won't be informative."

'_He IS being honest. Fuck. Better treasure this twenty four hour arrangement.'_

"Do you still think of me as your friend?"

"It depends on you."

"Please explain."

Sherlock crosses his arms and looks at the floor. "It depends on how you think of me."

"If I tell you that you're my best friend, what would you think?"

Sherlock raises a brow at him. Of course. He mentally rolls his eyes. Sherlock probably knows how hooked he is. Sherlock is a drug to him. And Sherlock probably knows that.

"Look, Sherlock... There are really two reasons why I came here."

"Okay..."

"One and the major one is to talk to you..."

"Yes..."

"The other is to tell you that my parents are having dinner and they want me to bring my best woman and my best man."

"Gavin?"

He sighs, "Who?"

"Gavin Lestrade. He's a man and... good at it." Sherlock shrugs. He would have laughed if it wasn't for Sherlock being blind right now.

"It's _Greg_. And no, he's not my best friend."

"Oh Mike Stamford, I see... Well, he's nice. Though I'm not sure how well he would cope with all-"

"No Mike's great but _he_'s not my best friend." Sherlock looks at him, tilting his head for answers. "Look Sherlock, my parents are very busy hard-working people and this is one of the rarest opportunities that I ever get to sit down with them at dinner together with the two people I love and care about most in the world..."

"Yes." Sherlock keeps looking at him.

'_Sherlock? What the fuck? You should know that you're one of them._' "Mary Morstan.."

"Yes..."

"And..." '_Fuck. This is harder than telling Mary that I love her..._' "..." '_Fuck. I should man up and say it to his face!_' "... You."

Sherlock blinks a lot of times and stays still.

* * *

He cannot believe it. He just can't. John 's words echoes in his brain. A lot of times.

"_... with the two people I love and care about most in the world... ... ... Mary Morstan and... you._"

He is still John's friend. How can John be asking him? Him?... This is him we are talking about... John is really asking him... The Freak?... John thinks of him as a friend.

He tells John how flattered and surprised he is...

He tells John that he never expected this respect and he is a little daunted by the face of it...

"Sherlock."

He promises John that he would do his very best to accomplish a task which was, for him, as demanding and difficult any he had ever contemplated.

He thanks John for the trust and privilege John placed in him. And indicates that he was, in some ways, very close to being... moved by it.

"That's getting a bit scary now."

And now he realises that he said none of this out loud.

* * *

Sherlock starts to be conscious with the world again and finally looks at him. It was weird seeing Sherlock extremely surprised. He probably got mind-blocked or something...

"So in fact... you-you mean..."

'_Oh fuck, he's stuttering..._'

"Yes.."

"I'm your..." He nods at Sherlock. "...best..."

"... Man."  
"... Friend?"

He did not expect that. He is surprised with Sherlock's reply. He thought that Sherlock knows how hooked he is... But the look of confusion in his face suggests otherwise.

"Of course you are. 'Course, you're my best friend," he smiles reassuringly. Sherlock is still looking at him like he grew three heads. "What do you think?"

"I think hearing the sentence is as rare as finding Scandium and Yttrium under my bed."

'_Sherlock?_' "Why?"

"Because I am, or rather, _was_ no one's best friend."

"Why do you say so?"

"Because I am the most unpleasant... rude... ignorant... and all round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous. Unaware of the beautiful and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So no, I don't expect to be anybody's best friend," Sherlock snorts like the idea is extremely ridiculous.

He mentally curses himself. Here he was, telling everybody and anybody that Sherlock Holmes was - is? - his best friend... But he never told his best friend that.

"Well, here is reality in front of you. You're my best friend."

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs in... relief? "Even if I am a narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine?"

"I didn't mean that-" Sherlock opens his mouth. "Let me talk first... No, I didn't mean that. I got angry and used words that I know would hit your core. Words I would never say to your face and mean it. I used it to hurt you, not define you. I'm sorry."

Sherlock smiles for the first time since he came in this house. Sherlock genuinely smiles. "Does the same goes about me being weird and... and..." Sherlock clears his throat. "... being the Freak?"

He looks at Sherlock. And observes. Sherlock looks like he is preparing for the worst but he is trying not to show it. He admits that even he is doubting Sherlock is thinking of the worst. But he knows Sherlock. "Did I really tell you that?"

"Twice. Yes."

A wave of guilt overcomes him but he puts on a good face for Sherlock. "I would never think of you, or anyone, a freak, Sherlock. No one is a freak. We're all creatures and some are just more different than others. And that difference is what makes them more special."

He panics. Sherlock's eyes looks like it is starting to wet. Okay... Okay... They are visible now, the tears that are threatening to fall. Sherlock closes his eyes and sniffs and smiles smugly.

He is impressed at how Sherlock can easily stop himself from crying.

But why would Sherlock cry?

Didn't Sherlock know how important he thinks of him?

"So... The dinner?" he tries to change the topic.

"Will you ask my parents?"

"What?"

Sherlock sighs, "Ask my parents."

"Why?"

"For permission," Sherlock says like this is the most obvious thing in the world.

"Do it yourself."

"They won't react how you'd expect it to."

"How will they react?"

"Surprisingly different."

He notices how Sherlock won't give him a direct answer. '_Only lies have details._' Sherlock's voice enters his head.

"Okay... Let's go now..." He stands up and Sherlock follows him. "Where?"

"Back garden, probably."

"Alright then."

And they head on to the back garden.

* * *

He walks, Sherlock guides him with the direction of the Holmes Manor. Why the hell didn't Sherlock ever let him visit this place? It's grand and amazing. Beautiful. Sherlock doesn't see how lucky he is to live in this kind of place.

"Go straight to this room," Sherlock points at a room.

It is kind of like a place to have a ball. Empty, right now, but the place is well kept. They probably use this room every two days...

The glass windows are marvellous on the wall facing them.

"That door, there," Sherlock directs him.

He doesn't understand why he has to do this and not Sherlock himself. Momma's boy.

They go outside. '_Holy fuck._' He thinks. This place is like a goddamn park. There is a fountain and the woods is on the other side. '_How rich are the Holmes?_'

He sees Mrs. Holmes sitting on one of the benches by the fountain, reading a book. The only thing missing from what she looks like is if her dress became floor-length, then she'd look like she's someone rich from the 19th century.

He hears Sherlock clear his throat and Mrs. Holmes looks up at them.

"Oh, hello, dearies," she closes her book and stands up. "What brought you here?"

"I just want to ask something..." Sherlock starts and gives him one look and he knows exactly what to do. He observes Sherlock, holding on the bench beside the one Mrs. Holmes is sitting on. Sherlock's knuckles are turning white from the pressure of the grip.

"Well, actually," he pretends to cut Sherlock off. "I want to ask you if Sherlock is... free this Sunday..."

"May I ask why?" she smiles at him.

"Well, my parents want to have dinner with me, bringing my girlfriend and my best friend," he pats Sherlock on the back. He looks in alarm when Sherlock flinches and did he just hear him wince? No... Probably his imagination...

Mrs. Holmes looks up at Sherlock. "Mummy?" Sherlock asks.

Mrs. Holmes smiles sweetly. "Well, his father and I are going away because of some business problems. So, I wouldn't mind if my son would join your Sunday dinner..."

"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes," he smiles sweetly. He turns around to look at Sherlock and gives him an _I-Told-You-It-Wouldn't-Be-That-Hard_ look. And Sherlock gives him a smile back. Sherlock looks at Mrs. Holmes again and then back at him.

"John, would you mind giving mummy and I a moment?"

He looks at both Holmes. "Sure," he walks inside the ball room.

He looks at the paintings on the walls. The Holmes ancestry... Some paintings of views... Some of Mrs. Holmes's work... '_Hold on... Is that?_' He sees a painting, beautifully made and saw the signature. "Mycroft Holmes," he says out loud and he laughs loudly to himself.

* * *

"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes," John tells his mother. John turns around and looks at him and gives him a reassuring I-told-you-so look. So he smiles back. He sees - in the corner of his eye - his mother's hand twitch. He looks up at her and she gives him a look that means _Come-Here-At-Once-But-Don't-Tell-Him-Forced-You-To-Do-So_ look.

"John, would you mind giving mummy and I a moment?"

"Sure," John says and politely walks away from them and walks towards the manor. He can feel his mother watch John as well as he. They both stare at John.

Violet slaps him on the face when they both see John walk in the manor, looking inside rather than at them.

"What were you thinking?!" Violet hisses. "I don't want you walking around outside the house and you agree to join them for dinner?! Are you even more out of your mind than you already are?!"

"No."

Violet slaps him again and he panics and looks at John inside the house. Glass windows, you know? He sees John looking at the paintings in the house and he sighs in relief.

Violet grips his arm hard and pulls him deeper in the back garden and into the maze. His wrist will probably bruise later.

When they are both safe from John's wandering eye, Violet turns around and slaps the fuck out of him. "Now, you will meet the Warners-"

"Watsons..." He gets slapped again.

"I don't care about their moronic name! Now you will meet these _normal_ people and I want you not to be such a freak in front of them. They might link your surname with ours and I don't want my family's reputation falling to ruins just because you bear the same name."

"Alright."

She slaps him again, "I'll have your father beat you up tonight. Don't run off."

"After just threatening me of what's to come?"

"Because if you run off, I _will_ kill you." Violet slaps him one more time and let's him go back to John.

He runs to the manor and enters the room where they held parties. John is laughing by himself at a painting Mycroft made.

"Enjoying the arts?" he asks.

"I can't believe Mycroft knows how to paint..."

"Got it from mo- mummy... probably... If you think I'm such a momma's boy, just you wait until Mycroft sees mummy." John chuckles and he smiles. He likes hearing John chuckle. It makes him feel like John enjoys his company.

"So, why'd you made me leave you and your mum alone?... Remember, twenty-four hours of pure honesty..."

"To be honest... we talked about you..."

"And?"

"She lets me go to your house on Sunday."

"I thought she already told us that?"

"Well with my parents, there has to be a more personal permission asking with them..."

"Oh..." John looks up at him.

His phone beeps. He has a million thoughts swarming his head when he sees it.

'Just heard from Violet.  
I want the fireplace poker  
and the house rake  
beside the door when I  
get home tonight. You  
are in a serious case of  
trouble. Siger Holmes.'

* * *

He sees Sherlock's face changes multiple times in a matter of seconds. Seeing Sherlock confused is rare. Something doesn't feel right but he cannot place what it is. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"We are in our twenty-four hour agreement." Sherlock answers.

"Yes..."

"And the truth? You want the truth?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes..."

"The truth is that I don't want to talk about it and it would be a great pleasure to drop the subject entirely."

"Oh... I... um... Okay... Listen Sherlock," Sherlock looks at him. "... I just finished doing two of the reasons why I wanted to come here... Having those goals accomplished, I think I just want to go home now."

"Okay..."

"Right..."

"Car will be here in five minutes."

"C-car? What car?" '_Did he just call a motherfucking car just to take him home?_'

"Just a car. Don't worry about it."

"Oh-kay..."

That's where the two of them ends up now. Both sitting on the ground, leaning on the Holmes Manor gate behind them.

The car comes.

He enters and waves goodbye at Sherlock. He keeps watching and even kneels on the car seat to look behind him and he sees Sherlock, kneeling on the ground. His hand on the gate, the other on the ground...

* * *

John is gone. His legs finally falls underneath him. He holds on the gate. It's not enough. He cannot move anymore. He is tired. So tired.

His hands fall and he collapses on the ground. He closes his eyes as the soothing ground greets him in open arms.

He texts his mother - something he never does.

'Can't move. Am outside  
gate. Will probably die  
of cold, fortunately for  
you. Will wait for father.  
SH'

A reply comes a minute later.

'I hope he breaks you.  
V'


End file.
